Page 13 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
I shuffle in the hideous heels to my closet and pull out a 1940s black lace shift dress. This one’s also calf-length, but it’s pencil cut, with a fitted bodice, long, tapered sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline. It’s demure, classic, and subtly sexy.
Allegra rolls her gaze up and down the dress and gives a begrudging nod. “I’ll see you outside in five minutes. Please stop drinking coffee ...” She glares at the half-empty mug on my desk. “It makes your teeth yellow. And don’t be a second late. This is the funeral of the century—I will drag you there naked if I have to.”
Crowds line both sides of the street as we drive to the church. The atmosphere is disconcerting. Some people lower their eyes and their hats in respect as we pass; others raise a glass of grappa and dance about in celebration.
New York hasn’t seen a funeral like this in decades—absolutely not one for a member of the mob. I even spot a policeman or two among the crowd, singing along to the Toreador Song, Gianni Di Santo’s favorite opera aria.
When we arrive at the church the mood outside is decidedly more somber. We step out of the car wordlessly and file up the stone steps. Sera slips her hand into mine, and we walk through the double doors together. A man in a Catholic robe directs us to the left-hand side and tells us to sit in row nine.
“I thought this was a funeral, not a trip to the movies,” Bambi whispers behind me.
“Oh, sure, didn’t you know?” Tess replies in her signature monotone drawl. “It’s a special showing ofThe Godfather.”
I keep my lips tightly and politely sealed, but I can see what she means. Before us is a blanket of black suits, black hair, and bulges in black jackets where guns are tucked into waistbands. A few women are scattered about sobbing into handkerchiefs, their faces hidden by black satin veils.
I shuffle along the pew and settle at the farthest end from the action. It’s intentional. I want to remain anonymous and hidden for as long as possible.
I don’t miss Allegra’s glare when she ends up with the aisle seat.
Papa continues to the front and greets some of the black suits. I’ve encountered made men over the years due to the nature of his agreement with Gianni, but none of them have made a memorable impression.
“Oh my lord,” Bambi mutters—then she’s abruptly scolded by Allegra for using God’s name in vain. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Is that the body in there?”
We all look to the front of the church, where there indeed is the coffin. One advantage of being fourteen is Bambi has been spared from most of the funerals our family has been invited to over the years. Seeing an open coffin is an understandable surprise.
“Of course it is,” Allegra snaps. “His family and associates will want to pay their respects.”
Tess grimaces. “But do they have to see the dead body to do that?”
Bambi makes a quiet retching sound. “I think I might be sick.”
“Can you see Savero?” Sera whispers beside me.
I shake my head. “I don’t know who I’m looking for.”
“You haven’t Googled your future husband?” she asks, aghast.
“No, I haven’t had time.” I’ve actually had lots of time—another lovely side effect of nightmare-induced insomnia—but I can’t bring myself to face my future yet.
She leans in to my ear. “There he is.”
My blood pumps erratically. “Where? How do you know?”
“IdidGoogle him,” she whispers. “I want to know what kind of person my sister will be spending the rest of her life with.”
“And?”
“There. To the right. Papa’s approaching him now.”
My eyes narrow on the man my father is weaving his way toward. When Papa stops, my gaze pans to a tall figure, slim but solid. From the back, he looks like every other man in the church, albeit a couple of inches taller. But when he turns his head to the left, I see sharp, prominent features, a strong Roman nose and hooded brow, and lips that are full but slightly downturned. He’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t make my pulse race. Then again, I haven’t even spoken to him. He might have a glittering personality.
“He’s ... quite handsome,” Sera says, but her attempt at enthusiasm falls flat.
“Yeah, if you like that same old suited and booted Italian greaseball look.” I pop a mint into my mouth and suck it to stop any more incriminating words leaving my lips.
“Hmm,” she muses. “He doesn’t look as greasy as some of them.”
I scan the other black suits and tip my head to one side to assess Savero from a different angle.
