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When Dominic escorts Emelia in front of her mother’s grave, her lips begin to move. She places a hand on her mother’s casket and then crosses her heart, moving next to her brother. There her lips move too, but her lovely eyes fill with tears as she places a long-stemmed red rose on her brother’s casket while Dominic holds her through her grief.
Dominic walks with her away from the casket, and the priest says a few more words, and then everyone begins to disperse, gathering in small groups and talking with one another while Dominic guides Emelia from the crowd and toward the front gate of the cemetery.
De Rosa watches them leave, his face blotchy and red, probably from a combination of grief, the heat, anger, and the embarrassment that Dominic’s presence causes. They will expect me to write about it, to put to paper his humiliation without coming right out and leading the reader there. I will be the one who allows the world to see his shame.
A black limo pulls up to the gate as Dominic and Emelia reach it. He opens the door for Emelia and then walks around to the other side and gets in as if he doesn’t have at least a dozen automatic rifles hidden in the distance pointed at his head.
The car pulls out and heads toward the highway that will take them around the city and back to The Larussio. Darryl starts the engine. “Ready, boss?” he asks.
“I think we’re done here. Follow Salvatore back, and let’s make sure that our soldiers are right behind Dominic and Emelia as they turn the corner,” he says.
No one says a word all the way back to the penthouse. My mind swims with the images of sheer hatred on De Rosa’s face, and grief on Emelia’s. While they managed to avoid an all-out war today, I have no doubt that each side is salivating over a chance to best the other in the near future.
Lorenzo assists me from the car and through the front doors of The Larussio. He has a firm grip on my arm as we walk down the tiled hallway to the private elevator. I glance at his face when we get in, and his jaw is firmly locked. He still hasn’t said a word.
“Are you okay?”
He nods, but his eyes are dark orbs, reminding me exactly who he is and what he’s capable of. “I just need to take care of a few things. I’m going to drop you at the penthouse. Why don’t you start on the article while I’m gone.”
“Sure. Do you think Emelia or Dominic would send me some of the pictures? It would help with the story, although I still have some pretty good images in my mind. This world, it’s harsh, isn’t it?” I ask.
He looks at me, and the gentleness that I’ve come to know in recent days returns. “It’s fucking brutal some days,” he says. “De Rosa knew exactly what he was getting himself in for when he attacked my family. He knew exactly what would happen when he kidnapped my little cousin. She was innocent in all of it. We’re just fortunate that Emelia got to her before some crazed lunatic tried to rape or torture her,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Obviously I don’t know the entire story. Just bits and pieces from what you’ve told me and what I’ve been able to put together over the wires and stuff.”
He turns to me. “You listen to the police scanners?”
I shrug. “What reporter doesn’t?”
He nods, but he seems deep in thought as we leave the elevator. Bruno is still stationed outside the penthouse. “No one’s been in or out, boss,” he says.
Lorenzo doesn’t respond, just nods. “I’ll be back as soon as I get done. I want you to stay inside. If you need anything, call me or let Bruno know. I trust him with my life and with yours. The De Rosas have been provoked. They let Dominic and Emelia walk out of there because they didn’t have much of a choice.
He tilts my chin with the tip of a finger. “This thing between the two families. It’s far from over, Isabella. I don’t want you caught in the middle of the gunfire or worse.”
I nod. “I have a story to write. I’ll be right there at your dining room table until you get back. You may need to get a little bit more stock in wine,” I tell him, trying my best to lighten the mood he’s sunk into, at least hoping to get a smile, but not succeeding in the slightest.
“Good. Stay here. Drink wine and wait,” he instructs before leaving me and closing the door with a solid click as he goes.
I exhale a deep breath. I pity the person who thinks of going up against Lorenzo and his family because the depth of their preparedness today was beyond imaginable. Not something they want splashed all over the papers obviously, but still, the sight of all those men hunkered into the rocks of the desert, scattered in strategic places with their fingers on the trigger, just waiting for that one split second if they had to take a shot.
And they almost did, only stopped by a hand in the air as signal to wait.
And Dominic. Whoa, does he have balls of steel. Walking right into that cemetery with Emelia on his arm. To say he loves her is not really enough to express the depth of the love between the two of them.
I head to the bedroom and peel myself out of my little black dress and boots, slide into a pair of fitted jeans and a teal green sweater, and walk barefoot to the kitchen. The couple of bites of bagel from earlier have long worn off by now, but the tray of baked goods and fruit is no longer here. Instead, the counters are empty but shine and smell as though freshly cleaned.
There’s nothing in the refrigerator to eat with the exception of leftover cheese and some fruit that I squirreled away last night. I put a few pieces of cheese and some grapes on a small plate and call the number downstairs to order a few sandwiches before settling behind the laptop.
I’ve just started the article using my memory for the beginning of the story, but a few moments later my phone begins to ding repeatedly. Pictures from the funeral pop onto the screen from Emelia to go along with the ones I captured from the car.
The images the camera has collected are impressive, the sharpness and clarity of them creating vivid likenesses. It wasn’t so long ago that nothing like this would have even been possible. I stop at one picture of Emelia. The camera in one brief second has captured a heart-wrenching moment where she’s staring at her father, and he’s looking at her with such contempt that it makes my heart ache for the woman I barely know.
The story angle floats around my mind, bits and pieces of the puzzle all fragmented and mixed with my memories of mafia life and a father who was right in the middle of it all. If there was something going down, my father was part of it.
Something Lorenzo said keeps swirling around and around…
If my father was protecting them, why is he still locked up in that jail cell? Why didn’t they get him out? Lord knows they have enough money. Anyone on the streets of Palermo and every other city from there south knows the Larussios control things that happen in the Italian prisons.
