Page 19 of A Game So Reckless

Valentina

Ihave to hand it to myself. It’s a beautiful funeral.

The church service goes off without a hitch two weeks after Dario’s death. Sombre tones and subdued flowers surround us as the priest and several members of the Fabbri family speak. I see more than one person in the crowd crying, but the only one whose tears seems genuine are Dario’s Mamma. The others appear forced, fake, a show put on by allies – or those who want to be allies – of the Fabbri empire.

I don’t have it in me to force alligator tears myself. I can’t even remember the last time I cried out of sadness or some kind of emotional response. These days I only cry when something physical happens. Like I poke myself in the eye with a mascara brush.

Or I choke on an olive.

Curse is on my left on the wooden bench of the pew. Papà is on my right, with Mamma on his right beside him. I feel Papà glance my way several times during the service, and I don’t know if he’s pleased by my lack of obvious emotion at the proceedings or annoyed by it.

At least he can’t be pissed about my outfit this time. I’ve chosen somethingsensible.Not the gorgeous gown I wore two weeks ago that Mamma lamented looked like something I’d wear to a funeral in a bizarrely ominous comment of foreshadowing. I’m wearing a simple black dress with a boat neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, and an A-line skirt that goes all the way to my knees. I’m even wearing tights underneath, despite the fact it’s more than thirty degrees Celsius outside with the humidity. My thick hair is tied in a simple, low chignon at the back of my head.

Thank goodness there’s air conditioning in here, because all in all, the church is packed. I can’t imagine many people liked Dario, but he was still an important person in the Toronto landscape, as evidenced by the attendance of most of Toronto’s city council, Toronto’s deputy mayor, and some of the wealthiest business men in the country.

Many of Papà’s men are in attendance, too. Capos and soldiers sprinkled throughout the crowd and standing around the edges of the large space. They’re not here to pay their respects.

They’re here to make sure this all doesn’t go to shit the way the condo unveiling did, or the way Deirdre and Elio’s wedding did.

But it doesn’t. The funeral is almost blissfully dull. When it’s over, everyone rises for the procession into the sprawling cemetery at the back of the church’s property. I feel my eyebrows rise as Papà heads for the front and takes his place as one of the pall bearers.

I was already surprised at how much we’ve been involved in this funeral, especially given what I heard through that office door two weeks ago. Papà told me that Signora Fabbri was too distraught to plan it and spent most of the last two weeks in bed, so that’s part of why I ended up in charge. But to go so far as being a pall bearer for the man who was apparently screwing everybody over, including our own family?

It doesn’t make sense.

But even Mamma is hustling forwards, as if she’s been instructed to. Not to take up a corner of the shining, flower-laden casket in her perfectly manicured hands. But to take Signora Fabbri’s arm as a stone-faced Rocco Fabbri leaves her side to grasp the casket.

Looks like Mamma got there just in time. Signora Fabbri’s wail cuts through the air as the casket is lifted and borne out into the hot sunshine. The only reason Signora Fabbri doesn’t collapse is because of Mamma’s hold on her. My mamma is stronger than she looks.

As I watch the two mammas follow the casket outside, I feel my first real wave of sadness come over me. Not for Dario. But for Signora Fabbri.

It’s always the men who get shot or blown up or thrown off the rooftops of this world.

But it’s always the women who grieve them.

And suddenly I feel like an asshole. A fraud. Attending the funeral for a fiancé I couldn’t even stand while his mamma nearly collapses in on herself with sorrow.

“Why the hell are we even here?”

I don’t realize I’ve whispered it out loud until Curse gives me a sharp look. We’re still standing in our pew, letting the rest of the guests shuffle slowly out.

The entire place is empty before Curse answers me with a question of his own.

“How much do you know?”

“Enough.”

I know about Dario’s Russian dealings. I know that the foundations of the Fabbris’ businesses are slowly cracking under the weight of the current market.

“Dario was probably a lost cause,” Curse says. “But Rocco isn’t. Rocco will be back on his feet one day. And Uncle Vinny will have been the one who helped him get there.”

Curse heads for the still-open doors at the back of the church. Sunshine spills in, hitting his face from the side as he looks at me. Half in light, half in shadow.

“How very generous of my papà,” I say, following him with a roll of my eyes.

“Not generous. Just business. When a man like Rocco Fabbri falls, it’s smarter to be the one who sticks around to help pick up the pieces. Play your cards right, and you can keep some of the biggest pieces for yourself. Put them in your pocket before the person who’s been broken even notices they’re gone.”

“That’s messed up,” I say with a sigh. The August humidity sucks the breath right out of me when I step into it.

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