Page 55 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“No. Wait for us outside.”
He walks out of the room, leaving Lorenzo and me alone. He offers his arm. “Signorina.”
Outside, we’re greeted by the limo driver, a small man with black hair and a nose the size of a cabbage. I get in, but Lorenzo stands outside, waiting.
And waiting.
It’s ten minutes before the marchesa arrives with Matteo, and by then my ears are burning with anger. I can’t believe she’d make us all wait for her, today of all days. What could she be doing, anyway? Drinking champagne? Then Matteo assists her into the limo and I see her face, and my anger vanishes.
She looks stricken. She’s as white as a sheet. Her hands are shaking. She swallows and looks out the window, avoiding my eyes.
Matteo instructs Lorenzo to sit beside her, then he climbs in beside me on the long bench seat opposite them. I feel him looking at me, but I won’t look back. As the driver shuts the doors, Matteo reaches over and squeezes my hand.
He doesn’t let go until we arrive at the church.
The church is three hundred years old, and so is the priest.
I sit beside the marchesa in the front pew, staring at my father’s casket. On my other side is Matteo, and on his other side is Lorenzo. Dominic kneels in the pew on the other side of the aisle, his head bent in prayer.
All the pews are full, which isn’t surprising. My father was always the most popular person wherever he went. Outgoing, kind, with a permanent smile, he made friends everywhere.
When I visited him on my summer vacations from school, the house was always swarming with people. Neighbors dropped by unannounced. There were impromptu dinner parties and afternoon picnics on the lawn. On Sundays after church he always put out a big brunch with champagne and everyone was invited.
When I think of it now, I realize that maybe he didn’t have bad money-management skills. Maybe saving it and making it wasn’t as important to him as how he spent it.
Maybe he simply had different priorities.
The ancient priest dodders over to the pulpit, signaling the start of the service. When he starts to speak in Italian, I stop listening to the words. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the cadence. To the responses from the crowd. To the painful beating of my heart.
There’s a full mass, including communion. Hymns are sung, bible passages are read, people stand, sit, and kneel at the appropriate times.
I do, too, aware always of Matteo on my right and his mother on my left. Aware of his constant, grounding presence. Aware of his gaze, which doesn’t stray from me for too long.
There are no eulogies, because my father thought it was morbid to talk about the dead. Then it’s over.
I survived. Barely. The scream inside my chest survived, too, and is impatiently clawing for escape from my throat.
I’ll let it have its moment later, when I’m alone.
Matteo, Dominic, and Lorenzo are three of the six pallbearers who bear my father’s casket out of the church to the waiting hearse and to the gravesite. The service at the grave is a blur. All I remember is that at one point, I swayed and Matteo caught me before I fell. He kept his arm clamped around my shoulders for the rest of the service, which was lucky for me. I doubt if I would have been able to stand unsupported.
I throw a fistful of dirt on my father’s casket, then it’s over.
I don’t remember walking back to the limo.
I don’t remember the drive back to the house.
I don’t remember anything, until I look up when the limo pulls to a stop and I see a familiar figure pacing back and forth in agitation in front of the front door of Il Sogno.
When I gasp in horror, Matteo whips his head around and looks at me, then follows my gaze through the window and narrows his eyes.
“Who’s that?”
Though my mouth has gone bone-dry, I manage to answer, “It’s Brad. My ex.”
When Matteo makes a terrifying sound in his chest—like a bear’s growl, only more lethal—I wonder if we’ll be having more than one funeral today.
SEVENTEEN
