Page 87 of Mafiosa
‘Nothing,’ Luca said.
‘Yet,’ Felice added.
I stole a glance at Donata. She wasn’t facing us. She was watching the priest take his place at the altar, a serene smile spread across her face. Maybe it was my imagination, but as I studied her, it seemed to grow, curling into a smirk that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
Everyone was on high alert.Peace talks, peace talks, peace talks,I kept repeating inside my head, but the words only seemed to raise my heart rate, and all I kept thinking was: if Donata was here, across from us, where were the rest of them? If it really was a gesture of goodwill, why weren’t they here, too, where we could see them?
Why wasn’t my uncle sitting across from us too? Why wasn’t my father here?
The Mass began in Latin. After a few minutes, Paulie shifted his position, so that he was sitting sidelong, facing the other side of the church and the back of it, his cheek turned to the priest and his sermon. This, evidently, was more important, and it was telling that neither Valentino nor Luca told him to stand down.
Time crawled, and instead of sinking into a feeling of serenity, I became more alert. Finally, everyone was gettingup and shuffling to the front of the church for communion. Felice brought Valentino, Paulie walking in front of them, just in case. Luca waited for them to return before going up. For once, I was glad of the protection. The choir was singing another soaring hymn. An old lady behind me was singing out of tune, her voice like broken glass. I stayed where I was, my hands folded in my lap.
The Falcones filed back in, one by one. I had to stand up to let Luca and some of the others by me. He knelt down, his face pressed to the pew in front of him, his eyes still open. They were all kneeling, even Felice, his lips moving soundlessly. Nic was praying, too. I hoped they were praying for peace among themselves. I stayed sitting up, unsure of where to put myself. I watched the sea of faces streaking by – made pale by the encroaching winter, their necks wrapped up in scarves. It was a bit eerie – this wordless procession, the deep, rousing music that fell upon us from above. Nobody was even looking at each other. They were looking at their hands, their feet.
I watched Donata and her two lackeys receive communion, heads dipped in reverence and hands clasped as they passed us by. They kept walking. Towards the exit, away from the final blessing.
I sneaked a glance at Valentino. Of course, he wasn’t kneeling – his chair was apart from the pews – but his head was down, as though he was sleeping.
I looked back at Luca. He was frowning, but his lips were still. Was he wondering about Donata, too? Why she wasn’t staying? Elena was sitting bolt upright in her seat, watching the back of Donata’s head as she made her way down thecentre aisle. Everyone was watching her go. Felice cleared his throat. There was a scuffle somewhere to my right, but by the time I looked back, everything was normal again. Valentino was still praying, his head bowed slightly.
I looked again, leaning closer to Felice and ignoring all that honeyed scent to see around him properly. Head bowed, shoulders slumped. I couldn’t see Valentino’s face, but his body was creasing, his forehead inching towards his knees, slowly, slowly.
I grabbed Luca’s arm and shook him.
He snapped his head around, forgetting to whisper. ‘What?’
I jabbed Felice in the shoulder. He was already looking at me.
‘Valentino,’ I hissed. ‘Valentino!’
I stretched around Felice, without bothering to ask permission. His head turned slowly, following me. The others were turning around now, too, following the disturbance and ignoring Donata Marino as she left the church.
Valentino was still falling forwards. Not praying. Not sleeping. Felice, seeing that I couldn’t reach, grabbed Valentino by the shoulder. He didn’t raise his head.
‘No,’ I muttered, ‘no, no, no.’
‘Valentino!’ Luca said, his voice carrying over the dying music. Felice pulled Valentino back with a stiff yank. His head lolled backwards until he was gazing at the ceiling, his eyes wide open. A trickle of blood striped his chin.
Felice gasped, and his hand fell away from his nephew. ‘No,’ he breathed.
No. No. No.
I looked down, to where Valentino’s hands were folded across his middle, his fingers still half clenched. I saw the handle of the knife, long and sleek, and the dark pool spreading across his jacket, right over his heart, at the same time as the others.
Elena screamed.
The choir stopped singing.
Nic and Dom jumped over the pew and barrelled down the middle aisle, shouting as they pulled their guns out. A lone figure crashed through the doors, just a shadow at the end of the church, her laughter rising up like a chorus. Laughter I had heard for the first time recently, trapped inside a darkened hallway in my school.
Elena’s scream echoed down the aisles of the church, reverberated around us as she folded in on herself, her face pressed to the pew as she gasped and heaved. Luca stumbled past me, past Felice, and out into the aisle. He sank to his knees in front of Valentino, his arms encircling his middle, his head slumped forward, touching Valentino’s knee – his position a mirror image of his twin brother’s. When the sound gurgled in his throat, it was a scraping, primal thing, carved from pure, soul-shattering grief, and I could feel it, this sharp, twisting wound, right down in my own heart.
Valentino was gone.
The boss was dead.
PART IV
