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Niccolo was pacing back and forth, shouting angrily into his cell. He was on the line with the prison staff at San Vittore’s, trying to get them to allow Dario to come to the phone – just in case.
The staff were being assholes as usual and not budging a bit. After all, it was 10:45 PM – ‘lights out,’ and after the appointed time for inmates to be on the phone.
“Our father could die!” Niccolo hissed. “Have a fucking heart!”
Just then, Fausto and Aurelio rushed into the waiting room. They’d been in Florence having dinner by themselves. Niccolo had called them on our way to the hospital.
Fausto looked fearful; Aurelio was almost stony-faced, though.
At the time, his lack of visible concern didn’t mean anything to me.
I recalled it months later, however.
“How is he?” Fausto asked.
“We don’t know,” Roberto said. “The doctors are with him now.”
“Oh God,” Fausto said. He crossed himself and began murmuring, “Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”
There were footsteps behind me.
Everyone turned to stare at a doctor in surgical scrubs.
He looked at us with a mournful expression. “I’m sorry… we did everything we could for him… but he passed three minutes ago.”
Everyone’s faces went slack, not quite comprehending –
But the sound that came out of Adriano was like the wail of a dying animal.
121
The day of the funeral was somber. Leonardo was buried in a small field near the olive groves, next to a marble tombstone belonging to his wife.
Other than the immediate family and the foot soldiers who worked for them, 50 people attended – strangers I had never seen before. Middle-aged men with grey streaking their hair. Wives dressed in black. They said their condolences to Fausto and the brothers, then left shortly afterwards in limousines.
Members of the Cosa Nostra. The heads of families from across Italy.
Back at the house, the servants put out food for the few visitors who stuck around. I was standing guard when Niccolo came over and whispered, “There’s a meeting in the parlor. Dario’s on the phone. He requested you be included.”
“Alright,” I said, then followed Niccolo into the foyer.
I hadn’t talked to Dario yet; I hadn’t had the chance. From what Niccolo had told me, Dario had gone insane with grief and rage when they told him his father had died – especially when he realized that they could have told him the night before and that they had robbed him of the chance to say goodbye. He had struck a guard in his anger and been beaten and thrown into solitary confinement for 72 hours.
We entered the parlor. All the brothers were there, as well as Fausto and Aurelio.
A cell phone was sitting on the coffee table in the center of the room. Everybody was huddled around it.
“We’re here,” Niccolo announced loudly as he shut the door.
“Is Lars with you?” Dario’s voice called out from the phone. He sounded like a different man – broken and alone.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Dario.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” he repeated, and I could hear the grief in his voice.
“What I want to know,” Adriano said with barely contained rage, “is why the fuck we have to do this today, of all days.”
Fausto replied calmly, “Because a great many things have to happen… and it’s best if we chart our course now so we don’t become confused in the days ahead. I know it’s painful… I’m grieving, too… but it needs to be done.”
