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There’s a knock at the door, and I lick my dry lips, my mouth feeling cottony. “Come in,” I call out, my voice cracking slightly as I turn to get my mother’s pearls from my jewelry box. Next to them, my extravagant engagement ring glitters in the light, and I snatch the pearls up, shutting the box before I succumb to the urge to grab it and throw it across the room. I wish I could take off all the evidence that I was ever married to him at all, but it would be absolutely scandalous to show up without so much as a wedding band on. Leaving my ostentatious ring off will seem like a show of modesty, but a bare hand would be whispered about for months.
Sofia told me that Luca’s done his best to keep the extent of what Franco and Franco’s father—hisrealfather—did quiet, containing it to the upper levels of the mafia, Bratva, and Irish hierarchies. It’s better for it to not spread too widely. It’s too insidious, too great of a lie, and too large of a betrayal to let the lesser men know about. It might give others ideas if they knew how long Franco and his father managed to hide it all, how close they came to bringing down an entire family and their heirs.
“Caterina?” Sofia Romano, my closest friend now—especially after everything that’s happened—steps into the room. She’s wearing a simple black dress, high-necked and knee-length, with elbow-length sleeves and her dark hair pulled back into a smooth bun. It’s very similar to the one I have on. Still, there’s one very noticeable difference between our silhouettes—Sofia’s stomach is faintly rounded, the slightest hint of her pregnancy starting to show. It’s just barely there. If I hadn’t known, I might just have thought she’d had a large breakfast. But I know—I was the one who encouraged her to tell her husband.
Sofia and I have had each other’s backs for some time now. And I don’t expect that to change anytime soon.
It’s a relief to have one person that I feel I can lean on. Two really, if I count Luca, but I’m not certain that I can yet. I haven’t spoken to him since Franco’s death or since he came back from the hospital. I think Sofia would have warned me if Luca blamed me in any way, or if he intended to hold me responsible for my husband’s crimes as well. However, I still can’t help but be afraid. Luca has never been as cruel, harsh, or commanding as most mafia men are—men like my late father. But the title of don, the responsibility of it, changes men. My mother told me that. And Luca has never been a particularly warm man, either. He’s always been kind to me, but I don’t yet know if he’ll put the mafia first or my happiness and safety.
I hope it’s the latter.
For the first time since my parents’ deaths, I simply want to be left alone to grieve. I intend to square things with Luca today, after the funeral. Then, hopefully, I’ll be allowed to retreat into my own private sanctuary, a convent of one. I have no desire to remarry or even really take part in this life anymore.
If I could disappear altogether, I think I would.
This life has taken far too much from me already.
“Are you alright?” Sofia looks at me sympathetically. “I know, that’s a loaded question. Here, let me do up your zipper for you.” She comes to stand behind me, gently tugging up the zipper and smoothing her hands down the back of my dress so that the crisp fabric lays correctly. I look painfully thin, far more than I ever been, although I’ve always been slender. My cheekbones look as if they’re pushing at my chin, my jawline sharp, my eyes tired. Even a generous helping of mascara and concealer couldn’t hide the fact that I haven’t slept in what feels like months. Once a man lays hands on you, it’s difficult to sleep well next to him any longer. But sleeping in another bedroom was never an option for me. Neither was telling Franco no when he required my attention in bed. He’d wanted me to produce an heir for him as quickly as possible, to solidify that hopeful son’s eventual rise to the seat that my father, and now Luca, occupied.
I touch my stomach surreptitiously, letting out a sigh of relief for the thousandth time that I didn’t get pregnant throughout our short marriage. Sofia is glowing with her pregnancy, and in the brief time that I’d had some happiness with Franco, I’d imagined myself the same way—radiant and happy to be having his child.
Now I can’t imagine it. Not just Franco’s, but anyone. I’ve always loved children, but the life of a mafia wife and mother feels light years away now, as if a different woman tried to live it.
I’m done with men. I never expected love, but the thought of marriage, of being a trophy on someone’s arm, of sex, makes me feel sick now.
If I have my way, I’ll never be married again.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Sofia tells me gently, resting a hand on my elbow. “Everyone expects you to be grieving. Just you being there is all you need to do.” She reaches for my hand, taking the crumpled half-veil out of it and reaching up to pin it into my hair, smoothing it back into a carefully pinned twist.
“Won’t I need to say something? A eulogy for my husband?” I lick my lips nervously, looking at my reflection. Ilookas if I’m carrying the heavy weight of grief, because I am, even if not for Franco. But I don’t know how I’ll get up behind a podium and look out across the gathered mourners, most of whom aren’t even aware of Franco’s betrayal, and give a eulogy appropriate for a grieving widow for a man that I now hate.
A man that, if I really look into the deepest, darkest corners of my soul, I’m glad is dead.
“I’ve already told Luca to take point on that,” Sofia says firmly, clipping the other corner of the veil into my hair. The black tulle covers my eyes down to the pointed tip of my nose, giving me an appropriately elegant air, and most importantly, hiding how truly awful I look these days. I’m far from my homecoming queen days, from being the most beautiful girl, not just among the mafia daughters, but maybe even in greater Manhattan. I’d always been aware of how pretty I was, perhaps even a little vain about it. I’m sure it will return in time, though I’m no longer interested in what I can buy with that currency. But today, at least, I look much older than my twenty-two years.
“So I don’t have to speak at all?” I glance sideways at her. “Won’t everyone think that’s strange?”
“When he asks you to come up, just start to go and then break down crying. Fake it if you need to,” Sofia says encouragingly. “And he’ll say something about how heartbroken you are, and Father Donahue will move things along.”
I let out a breath that I hadn’t known I was holding. “Thank you,” I whisper, turning to face her and grasping her hands in mine. I can feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you for being here for me, through all of this. I know it hasn’t been easy for you.”
“It hasn’t,” Sofia admits. “But it’s better now—for me, for Luca. We’re better. We’re finding our way through all of this. And you will too, Caterina, I promise. Things will get better.”
She reaches up underneath my veil, brushing a tear off of my cheek with her thumb. “Franco is dead. He can’t hurt you, or anyone, anymore. You’ll heal from all of this. You just need time. Just get through today, and then you’ll have all the time you need to grieve, and heal, and find out who you want to be. Just a few more hours, and by tonight, it will all be over.”
I cling to that as I pick up my purse and rosary and follow Sofia out of the bedroom, out to the waiting car.
By tonight, it will all be over.
I can put all of this behind me and start fresh, as my own woman.
Caterina Rossi, a free woman.
It has a nice ring to it.
