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“Great Mantels.”
“The casino?”
Sophie nods excitedly.
Cool.
Seems I might be visiting the Casino on Wednesday.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Alessandro
The soft drizzle falls relentlessly as we gather at the cemetery, a sea of black coats, fedoras, and somber expressions. Luca’s widow, Isabella, is a vision of grief, her tears mixing with the rain as she cries inconsolably. I watch from a distance, my heart heavy, feeling the weight of an oath to avenge Luca’s death. The funeral is a typical Catholic affair, somber and laced with the weight of sorrow.
We stand in formation, a tight-knit group of the Cosa Nostra, offering a façade of solidarity for the grieving family. The rain-soaked earth seems to reflect the gloom in our hearts as the priest delivers words of absolution. Is this ritual is enough to bring closure and wash away the blood that stains our hands?
Giulio stands by my side, his grey eyes concealed behind dark glasses. He’s a silent sentinel, and I can sense the tension in his posture. The loss of Luca has shaken us all, but it’s not just a personal tragedy. It’s an affront to Cosa Nostra, and we cannot let it go unpunished.
Luca was like a brother to me. He shared my dreams, my ambitions, my loyalty. His death can’t go unanswered. I clench my fists inside my coat pocket, vowing that justice will be served.
Amidst the sea of umbrellas and mourners, I catch a glimpse of Bruno. He’s sitting away from the others, his face hidden beneath his hat, but his presence is unmistakable. He’s a ghost in the crowd, observing, calculating. Bruno may have his quirks, but he’s one of the most meticulous men I’ve ever met. He won’t rest until we’ve found those responsible for Luca’s murder.
As the priest concludes the service and the casket is slowly lowered into the ground, the finality of it all hits me like a freight train. It’s not just about bidding farewell to a friend; it’s about accepting the burden of retribution, shouldering the responsibility of tracking down those who dared to violate the sanctity of the Cosa Nostra.
“Rest in peace, Luca,” I mutter under my breath, making the sign of the cross, and hoping that wherever he is, he knows that justice will be served.
The mourners begin to disperse, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the memory of Luca’s laughter and camaraderie. I catch Bruno’s eyes, and without a word exchanged, we both know what we have to do.
Justice.
* * *
The wake is a night of stark contrasts, a far cry from the somber funeral we held earlier in the day. We’ve gathered in the lavish halls of my sprawling mansion, tucked an hour away from the bustling city. Here, we put on a different face – a wild, extravagant celebration of Luca’s life.
The air is thick with the mingling scents of cigarettes, the unmistakable tang of whiskey, and the lingering remnants of sorrow. It’s a gathering that serves as a release of pent-up emotions, an unconventional Cosa Nostra tribute to our fallen comrade.
My grand house, with its imposing architecture, provides a luxurious backdrop for this night of untamed feelings. Velvet curtains, like the veils of mourners, shield us from the outside world. The chandeliers above, casting playful shadows on the marble floors, seem to dance in defiance, echoing our determination to honor life amidst the shroud of death, to celebrate life against the backdrop of death’s shadow.
Our guests, a motley crew of mafia affiliates, are a blend of revelers and mourners. As I navigate through the crowd, the emotions on display are a stark juxtaposition. Some bear the gravity of grief hidden beneath counterfeit smiles, while others drown their sorrows in whiskey bottles. Amongst the opulence, men and women are adorned in lavish attire, bedecked in jewels.
In one corner, Luca’s closest comrades have set up an impromptu bar. Whiskey shots are poured, glasses are raised in salute to our fallen comrade, and laughter mingles with the camaraderie. Their mirth, though contrasting the sadness in their eyes, serves as a poignant reminder that life endures even in the face of death.
There are half naked women everywhere. I am not sure who provided the entertainment and I am not complaining.
There is even a makeshift pole in the middle of the room where one of the women in tiny sequin shorts is shaking her ass as my men throw dollar bills at her.
As the night progresses, the atmosphere turns lively, exuberant. The mansion throbs with activity. We drink, laugh, and revel, defying the impending grief that will inevitably follow once the effects of alcohol wear off.
In a quieter corner, a tattoo artist plies his trade. The rhythmic buzz of his needle etches permanent tributes to Luca onto the willing flesh of mourners. The scent of ink mingles with the other smells in the room. These tattoos are more than art; they are emblems of unyielding loyalty, etching Luca’s memory into the very skin of the Cosa Nostra family.
Throughout the wake, hedonism permeates the atmosphere. It’s a brief respite from the brutal truths of our lives within this criminal syndicate. For a fleeting moment, we allow ourselves to be human, embracing the impermanence of life. Laughter, music, and overlapping conversations create a sanctuary from the grief – a gentle reminder that, even in death, we honor our family’s existence.
I find myself in a secluded corner, drink in hand, and a faint smile gracing my lips. This night, despite its extravagance and revelry, is merely a prelude. Soon, we will return to our pursuit of justice for Luca. His death will not be in vain, and our loyalties will be tested. But for tonight, we remember Luca, our fallen brother, and the life that continues in his memory.
The haze of my cigar smoke lingers around me, and I’m content to let my men have their fill of this wild wake. But then, an unexpected guest enters the scene, a face I haven’t seen since my father’s funeral: Pietro Salgari. He’s an older, distinguished Italian man that has known my family for generations. Pietro was my father’sconsigliereand was meant to continue in that role alongside me. However, he has been in Italy for the months, dealing with our associates in Sicily, to keep our–let’s call it omission of information–believable, leaving me to manage things here in the States.
With a warm smile, he embraces me and, in a hushed tone, asks if we can retreat to a more private space for a conversation. I oblige, guiding him to a quieter room away from the boisterous crowd.
