Page 87 of The Beast Who Begged Me

Dami looks down at the bag. For a long time, he doesn’t move, and I stand beside him while Rosa quietly moves the frozen chicken into the sink, so that the kitchen begins to feel normal again.

“I’m still finding the rest of him,” Dami says at last. “I’m not leaving him wherever those fuckers dumped him.”

“And when you do, he’ll have a place waiting.” I slide my hand over his. Over the last mortal remains of Sebastiano Conti. “Let me arrange it, Dami.”

His fingers tighten around mine. Then, finally, he nods.

I make the calls myself. A cremation for what little we have of Seb, a private plot, an urn, someone to say the prayers. We’ll conduct a small ceremony at dawn in three days, with no announcement and no headstone until Dami is ready to choose one.

I arrange it all while Rosa sits Dami down and puts a cup in his hand. When she catches my eye, she gives me an approving nod.

I just wish I could do more.

Dami carries the urn through the cemetery gates in one hand. Six men should be carrying Sebastiano Conti. Instead, Dami could put what’s left of him inside his coat.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

Frost whitens the ironwork, catching the first weak light as the sun struggles against the gloom. Across the road, the body shop’s roll-up door is down, its repaired sections showing through the fresh paint.

Rosa walks beside Sammy, with Ricky on his other side. The Giordanos follow us along the path, Junior’s injured arm tucked into a sling beneath his coat. Vito stays close while the other Clemenzas spread out, watching the road and the gaps between the monuments.

Just as we reach the grave, Ferraro raises a hand from the gate. A car has pulled up outside, and Gallo gets out, followed by four men in dark coats.

Dami told me yesterday that he’d invited them. They knew Seb, too, he’d said. They belonged here. I made sure Ferraro knew to expect them, and now I give him a nod to let them in.

A black SUV follows their car to the curb, stopping a short distance behind it. A woman gets out, and I recognize her from a photograph Dami showed me: FBI Special Agent Monica Anderson, who turned up in Turtle Bay while the house there was still burning.

She watches the Giuliano men pass through the gates, then looks toward us. Beside me, Dami shifts the urn in his hand, and I turn my attention back to him.

The oldest of the men grips Dami’s shoulder when he reaches us, and Dami catches his forearm. Neither speaks. Another gives him a small nod that Dami returns, the familiarity obvious now that I’m watching for it.

He told me he’d worked with these men. Watching them greet him, I understand that he meant more than recognizing their names. Whatever they decide about joining us, I’m glad they came for him today.

“Don Clemenza,” Gallo says. His eyes move to the grave, then the urn in Dami’s hand, and his mouth tightens. “We wanted to pay our respects to Seb Conti.”

I nod, and we move aside to make room, so that the men gather with us around the open ground.

The priest begins. Dami stands still, the only sign of life his breath, each exhalation drifting white. When the priest says Sebastiano’s name, the oldest of the Gees takes off his hat and presses it against his chest.

Rosa is crying quietly. Sammy reaches for Dami’s free hand, squeezes it, then lets go. I keep my shoulder against his arm while the prayers continue.

When it’s time, Dami kneels at the edge of the grave. He leaves his hand on the lid of the urn for a moment before he lowers it down.

The priest steps back, giving us a little time, and the man holding his hat looks around the little circle.

“He came to my old man’s funeral,” he says. “Stayed until the end. I remember thinking he must have something better to do.” He looks down into the grave, working the brim between his fingers. “But he stayed.”

“Big Gee wouldn’t even let us say his name,” another man says. There’s anger in his voice, and then he looks at Dami. “Will you be fighting for him, Orsini? For his memory?”

“I will be. Under Don Clemenza, and allied with the New York Commission.” Dami looks directly at him, then at the others, making sure they’ve heard. “You join with us, then you can speak his name as often as you like. But none of you owe an answer this morning. We’re here for Sebastiano Conti.”

There’s a murmur of agreement. Dami bends down to pick up a handful of earth, and scatters it over the urn. One by one, we all do the same. Dami accepts condolences, and I wait with him until the small crowd disperses, leaving us alone at the graveside.

“I’ll give you a minute,” I say, but he reaches out to grab my wrist, silently keeping me with him.

A few minutes later, across the road, someone raises the body shop’s patched roll-up door, the rattle carrying in the still winter air. Dami looks toward it, then back at the grave, and some of the strain eases around his mouth.

“We’ll be right over there,” he says, and I know he’s not speaking to me.