But as we walked to Cenzo’s waiting SUV, I couldn’t help wondering where the boundaries of family loyalty truly lay. If Cenzo knew about me and Labria, did the don know? Did he care? I had to address those thoughts at a later time.
The Holy Angel Cathedral parking lot resembled a high-end car dealership with its lineup of identical black SUVs and four-door sedans. I sat in the back of Cenzo’s vehicle, watching as two security men scanned the perimeter before opening our door.
This wasn’t just a funeral. It was a gathering of La Cosa Nostra’s elite, and everyone knew the risks that came with having so many high-ranking family members in one location. My father might not have been universally loved, but his death would bring out members from the entire organization.
“Stay close,” Cenzo muttered as we approached the church entrance. I didn’t need the warning. I’d been to enough family events to understand the protocol.
Nicco Bregoli stood at the top of the church steps, a living statue of authority. His tailored black suit seemed to absorb the morning sunlight rather than reflect it. Flanking him were four men I recognized as his personal security detail, all wise guys, all former military, all deadly. I turned and saw Nicco had even had men stationed on the rooftops of the buildings surrounding the church. Why all the added security? What didn’t I know?
As I approached Nicco’s expression was appropriately somber, but his eyes remained sharp and calculating as he greeted each arriving mourner with practiced formality.
When we reached him, Nicco clasped my shoulder firmly. His grip was strong enough to remind me of his position while still appearing comforting to any onlookers.
“Maurizio,” he said, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “Your father was a complicated man, but he was family. We will talk later.”
I nodded, understanding the layered meaning behind his words. In our world, blood ties transcended personal failings. It didn’t matter that my father had been cruel, unpredictable, and ultimately a liability to the organization. Today, we would present a united front to honor a fallen Sicilian brother, at least in appearance.
“Thank you for handling the arrangements,” I replied.
Nicco’s eyes searched mine briefly before he nodded once and turned to greet the next arrival. I moved into the church, Cenzo a silent shadow behind me.
Inside, the church was filled with faces I recognized from family gatherings and business meetings. In the second row sat my cousin Valentina, elegant in black, with her husband Dario Graziano at her side. Next to them was Dario’s father, Capo John Graziano, his weathered face set in lines of practiced grief.
The LaGrassa family occupied another section of the church. Emilio and his father Primo had flown in from New York. Their presence was a show of respect for the alliance between our families.
Nearby sat Ray Capello and Santino Ruffino, representing the Bregoli Philadelphia interests.
The back rows were filled with made men and soldiers whose loyalty to the organization had been proven through blood and fire. Their expressions were devoid of emotion. There was neither grief nor satisfaction at my father’s passing. Business associates, a few politicians on the family payroll, and other connected individuals filled out the remaining seats. The church was packed. I was surprised.
I made my way to the front row reserved for immediate family, navigating through a gauntlet of handshakes and murmured condolences. Each interaction felt like a performance. All their words expressed sympathy while theireyes assessed my reaction, my position, my future now that my father was gone.
“He was a real man of honor,” said a capo whose territory had bordered my father’s.
“A true old-school soldier,” offered another, who I knew had complained bitterly about my father’s methods just months ago.
“The family won’t be the same without him,” said a man whose restaurant my father had extorted.
I nodded, thanked them, shook hands, and moved on. The ritual of grief is as choreographed as any religious ceremony. None of it felt real. None of it acknowledged the truth of who Gianni Bregoli had actually been.
As I took my seat in the front pew, I felt the weight of eyes on my back—hundreds of gazes analyzing my posture, my expression, looking for signs of weakness or relief. I kept my back straight, my face composed, years of practice making the mask easy to wear even as my insides churned with conflicting emotions.
Grief wasn’t what I felt. Not exactly. There was relief, certainly. Guilt about that relief. A strange emptiness where I thought closure might be.
And beneath it all, thoughts of Labria kept surfacing. What was she doing now? Was she thinking of me? Or of Lord? Cenzo’s cryptic comments from earlier gnawed at me, making me question things I’d taken at face value.
The priest began the service, his Latin prayers washing over me without penetrating my thoughts. When it came time for the eulogy, Nicco moved to the podium with measured steps, his presence commanding immediate silence throughout the church. He surveyed the congregation for a moment before speaking, his gaze lingering briefly on key allies and family captains.
“Gianni Bregoli served his family his whole life,” Nicco began, his voice carrying easily to the back of the church. “He came up in a different time, when the rules of our business were still being written. He was old-school, sometimes too old-school for the changing times.”
A few knowing chuckles rippled through the audience. Nicco continued. His eulogy read more like a business assessment than a personal tribute.
“He was a loyal man, loyal to the organization, loyal to the old ways. That loyalty never wavered, even when the world around us changed. Some might call that stubbornness. Others might call it principle. Either way, it defined him.”
I kept my expression neutral, though inside I was translating the careful euphemisms Nicco employed. My father’s “loyalty to the old ways” had included brutal enforcement methods that had become a liability in an era when discretion and sophistication were valued over brute force. His “principle” had often been simple cruelty justified by tradition.
“Gianni had his flaws, as we all do,” Nicco acknowledged, a masterful understatement that again produced knowing looks among the assembled. “But he understood the most important thing. Family comes first. The organization comes first. Personal feelings, personal grudges, personal desires, all must be cast aside for the greater good.”
I felt Cenzo shift slightly beside me. We both knew what Nicco was really doing with this eulogy. He wasn’t just burying my father. He was burying an era. The message to everyone present was clear. The old ways were dying with Gianni Bregoli. Nicco’s father was gone, and so was mine. With that, the old regime was over, and the sons of old men were in charge.
