13. Trilby

T rilby

I've never been one to speak ill of the dead, but I wish Giovanni Luigi Marioni the third had picked a different day to die.

I haven't even met the man, but his reputation as one of Gianni Di Santo's favorite capos preceded him, and as with most things shaped by violence, I find it hard to feel sorry for him.

As is tradition in the Marioni family, a funeral must be held exactly ten days from the second the deceased became, well ... deceased , regardless of whether the last breath was taken at midday or midnight.

Exactly nine days, twenty-three hours, and ten minutes ago, Gio Marioni was shot between the eyes in the heart of Queens for beheading a close Mexican acquaintance of the Marchesis. Which is why I'm now sitting in a long black vehicle, playing the role of spare wheel to my fiancé and his phone, instead of presenting my final art show at the college.

I gaze out the window, watching the gray buildings pass by. We left the homely boulevards of Long Island an hour back and have now entered the more industrial streets of Williamsburg.

I turn to face the other view—that of my future husband. His focus is entirely on his call, which I gather to be "work"-related since it's peppered with words like "tracks" and "boxes." It doesn't take a genius to know he's talking about cocaine smuggling.

I tune out the voice and concentrate on his face. I've only had a handful of moments to study Savero, so I seize the chance to do so as discreetly as I can.

I study him objectively, like a piece of work I have to critique for a college project. His jaw is molded with hard lines to match the immovable frown covering his brow. His lips are full, though often pursed into a thin line when things aren't going the way he likes. His brows are thick like his brother's, but his irises are lighter—more bronze than burgundy—and his cheeks set lower.

My gaze runs downward, taking in his neck—thinner and leaner than Cristiano's—and his shoulders—slim and sharp compared to his brother's thick, rigid form. I've seen them stand side by side only a few times, but I remember there being about three inches between them, Cristiano being markedly taller.

I find myself wondering if I'll ever feel the same pull toward Savero that I seem to feel for his brother. I wonder if that's why I feel so strongly for Cristiano ...

Because he's the wrong man. The man I can't have.

I haven't seen him since he sat with me while I painted. That was over a week ago.

Savero doesn't even know I paint.

I look out the window again, just as we pull into the gravel parking lot of the St. Augustus Church.I sit up sharply. I didn't know we were coming to this church. Of all the Catholic churches in Brooklyn, why this one?

My chest tightens.

Feelings I thought I'd buried start clamoring for oxygen.

Savero's phone snaps shut, and he rests a hand casually over mine. I drop my gaze to it, wondering when the warmth might penetrate my skin, or when butterflies will take flight in my lower abdomen, but there's nothing. Then again, my heart is stuttering with the aftereffects of trauma. I haven't been to this church in five years. And I vowed never to set foot in it again.

"Wait here for five minutes."

I nod and look into his eyes, seeking some kind of softness, but I'm met with only flint.

"There's some business I need to take care of."

The door closes with a little too much force. The leather squeaks as I drop my head back against it and close my eyes, for the first time willing them to fill with Savero or Cristiano—anything but the memory of when I was last here, saying goodbye to Mama.

I can't do this. Blind panic fills my throat, and I try to slow my breaths, my fingertips gripping the leather seat like I might levitate off it.

Pull yourself together , I scold.

The past isn't important right now. The future is everything. My family is everything. I focus on my breathing, deliberately slowing my inhale, my exhale, until I feel almost normal. Gradually, the tightness in my chest eases enough that I can step out of the car.

Other mourners are walking my way, dressed from head to toe in black. I don't recognize any of them. I'm an outsider at this funeral, unsympathetic to the plight of the deceased, no tears brimming in my eyes, only shock pulling at the corners.

I draw the net down over my face and walk in the same direction as the other mourners, toward the entrance to the church.

Out of nowhere, his presence warms my side, matching my racing heart step for step, his large hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expensive shoes making a soft click against the paving stones.

"The Cosa Nostra world suits you."

With each step I take, my breath shakes a little more. "Well that's a relief," I say, remembering his lack of response to my assessment of what is now expected of me. "I'd say it suits anyone who can dress in black and keep a few secrets."

"We're back to keeping secrets, are we?" Cristiano says, a smile tugging at his lips.

I'm only half paying attention even though his arm grazes mine, challenging my determination to keep my distance. "Aren't secrets the same as currency in this world?" I try to keep my tone light, but in all honesty, I'm struggling to place one foot in front of the other.

"True. But you're not a part of this world yet , so yours are of little value."

I stop and stare at him, though the vision of him is faint and graduated. "You're saying my secrets are worthless?"

"It depends who you're asking,"

The same words he said to me in the library scratch at my patience.

I narrow my lids. "I'm asking you ."

His eyes flash as if he's just stumbled across a moment he's been waiting his whole life for. He steps into my orbit despite the fact I'm spinning, untethered and so disoriented I feel slightly sick.

"Your secrets will only be worthless if you share them with the wrong person."

A short gasp leaves my throat.

He can't know.

I have only one secret, and it's him . But he can't know that. No one can.

The realization I'm in deep collides with the memory that I'm still rooted in so much loss.

I start walking again and somehow reach the steps, where I pause at the bottom. Cristiano takes two before realizing I'm no longer by his side. He turns and coasts his gaze over my frozen form.

"Come on—we should get inside. The ceremony's about to start."

"I-I can't," I stutter. I'm rigid with shock. My legs won't move.

He's at my side in a heartbeat. "What's wrong?"

My brow feels clammy, and I raise a trembling hand to wipe it.

"You're shaking. Are you feeling okay?"

"Um, I'm fine." Even as I say the words the steps are swimming before me. "But I don't think I can go inside."

I feel his large palm cradling my elbow and guiding me to a bench.

"Put your head between your knees."

When I don't respond, his hand moves to my nape and pushes me down gently. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, and slowly, my head begins to feel normal again.

After a few minutes have passed, I look up at the doors to the church. They've been closed. "Shit," I mutter. "I need to be inside. Savero ..." I go to stand but wobble precariously.

Cristiano's hands find my hips and press down firmly, until I'm once again sitting beside him. "Savero will be fine. He's survived without a woman by his side for thirty-two years. He can get through another day."

I cast my gaze to Cristiano. "Thirty-two? I had no idea he was twelve years older than me."

His expression darkens. "What happened just now? I thought you were going to faint on me."

I stare at my hands. "The last time I visited this church, it was ..." I swallow, but the dryness grows tighter, the lump in my throat larger. "It was for my mama's funeral."

Cristiano lifts a hand to his face and presses his thumb and middle finger to the bridge of his nose. "Fuck," he whispers coarsely. "How long ago was that?"

"Five years." I take deep breaths and look up at the building. "It feels like it was only yesterday. I can't believe five years have passed since I last saw her."

"What happened?" His voice is surprisingly soft.

"She was driving me to an art class." My voice sounds faraway, and the image in my mind crackles like a vintage movie that's been played too many times. "I didn't want to go, but she'd already paid for it. We got into a huge fight, so we were late getting into the car."

That will always be my biggest regret: fighting with Mama that day.

"Even though she was driving fast, we noticed a car following us. We were used to being trailed, and we often had a couple of Papa's security guys with us for protection. But that day we were too late for my class already, so we didn't call the guys, and we didn't try to lose the car like we normally would. When we stopped at a set of lights, a guy jumped out of the car, ran over to us, and smashed in the driver's window. My face got all cut from the glass."

Cristiano stills beside me, but I can hear his breathing, slow and steady, matching mine to his and grounding me while I recount the moment my life changed forever.

"He was screaming at Mama, and she screamed back at him. I can't remember what they were saying, because I was terrified. Then he reached into the car and started strangling her ..."

I stop to catch my breath. I never again want to feel as helpless as I did that day.

"Then another guy came out of nowhere, pulled out a gun, and before I could even figure out what was going on, he'd shot Mama. She died instantly."

I slowly become aware of a hand stroking the tears from my cheeks. "I can't forget the look on her face. So angry and afraid. Then, as the blood drained away, her expression changed. She looked peaceful."

Cristiano continues to breathe steadily. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." I lift my lids to check for a reaction, but there is none. "I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. No sound would come out of my mouth at all. It was the gunshots that raised the alarm. The police took me home and broke the news to Papa."

Out of the corner of my eye, Cristiano scrubs a hand across his face. "Does Sav know any of this? That this is the church where you held her funeral?"

I drop my lids and shake my head slowly. "It wouldn't make any difference," I say with a trace of bitterness. "I know people die in this life all the time. I can hardly boycott the biggest church in the city, can I?"

He stares straight ahead with an almost angry glint in his eye.

Nerves skitter across my skin as I prepare to ask him his story. "You lost your mama too, right?"

He inhales a deep breath and exhales it through pursed lips. Then he rubs his hands over his knees.

"You don't have to answer that. I just?—"

"No," he cuts in. "We did lose her. She was also shot dead. A drive-by, to get to my father."

Oh .

"I'm so sorry. When did it happen?"

He shifts slightly, and his arm brushes against mine, raising the hairs across my skin. "Ten years ago. I was seventeen."

I shake my head at the horror of it all. Between Cristiano and Savero, and me and my three sisters, that's six kids deprived of a mother, all because of the criminal underworld lurking around every corner.

I look sideways at him and momentarily admire how composed he is when talking about something so personal; so emotional. "What did you do?"

"I moved to Vegas soon after. I got special dispensation from my father to leave this world behind. I wanted nothing to do with it. I still don't." He shakes his head as if he's the one who needs convincing. "At least, it's what I keep telling myself. The life I have now, the businesses I run—sure, it's not always straight and legal, but I chose it. I run these businesses entirely by myself. Every bit of success I've had, I made it on my own. And I haven't had to put a bullet in anyone's head to make it happen."

I nod as though I understand, but I don't.

Unlike Cristiano, I don't have a choice. Unlike Cristiano, I can't marry whomever I want, because apparently, I have to be pawned off to "save" our family. Cristiano can come and go as he pleases; his family accepts that from him. But me? I'm stuck in this way of life, and I'll never be able to leave.

I feel his eyes settle on me as if they can reach into my soul and hear every thought.

"I'm fortunate," he says softly. "I got to choose a different path. I chose not to follow in the footsteps of my father and Sav. I didn't want that kind of life. I felt like I owed it to our mother to create a different life, to improve the chances of at least one of us living till we're sixty."

I hesitate, unsure my next question is appropriate given how short a time ago it was, but I figure we've probably gone past the point of appropriate by exchanging the details of our mothers' bloody murders. "How old was your father when he died?"

He laughs, low and bitter. "He was six months shy of his sixtieth birthday."

"Oh man," I whisper.

"Yeah." He sighs heavily and with a note of suspicion. "He went too soon. None of us expected it. He was fit and healthy."

"I'm sorry. It must have been a shock."

He cracks his knuckles and stares at the ground.

"Savero seems to be handling it okay," I suggest.

"My brother will never show his true emotions." His gaze seems to darken as though he doesn't necessarily approve.

I wring my hands and then realize I've picked up the damn habit from Allegra. "Not even with me?" I ask quietly.

His jaw hardens, and he turns to face me. The heat of his unwavering focus on the surface of my skin will never get easier to bear. Every cell of my body wants to turn from him, but like an addict who just laid eyes on their next fix, I can't draw my attention away.

"I don't know the answer to that." He speaks softly, but there's an edge to his tone. "As far as I know, he's never shown his true emotions to anyone his entire life."

Does he even have emotions? I want to ask, but I realize how dark and judgmental that might sound.

"That must be very tiring," I say instead.

Cristiano smooths his hands down his suit pants and then stands and holds out a hand. "I'm sure it would be," he says with a taut smile.

I can't hear anything properly as I place my hand in his, because my pulse is thundering at the feel of his fingers wrapped around mine, but I swear he mutters something that sounds like, "If he actually cared for anyone else."

We walk up the steps to the church, and I make no attempt to withdraw my hand from Cristiano's. I know he's only holding it because I very nearly passed out on him, and he probably doesn't want to be burdened with a comatose woman at the funeral of his father's favorite capo. Still, a small part of me imagines he's holding my hand because he wants to. Because, if he's anything like me, he's craving this touch, and he can't seem to think of anything else, as inconvenient as it is.

At the top of the steps, the doors open, and he drops my hand, leaving the sensation of his heated skin on mine to evaporate into the thick Brooklyn air.

The church looks smaller somehow, as if my recollection of that day is slightly less poignant than this moment I'm sharing with someone else who also lost their mother. Someone who understands.

Thankfully, no heads turn our way as we walk quietly down the aisle and slide into the first empty pew. I can see Savero sitting several rows ahead, but he doesn't turn around. Not that it matters, because Cristiano's thigh is pressed against mine with a possessiveness I want to devour, and despite the memories nudging at my consciousness, I can't think of anything else.