“The Bregoli family honors its own,” Nicco concluded, his gaze sweeping across the gathered mourners, “but we also moveforward. We adapt. We evolve. That is how we survive. That is how we thrive.”
He stepped away from the podium to murmurs of approval. The real funeral, the one that mattered, had just taken place. Not for my father as a man, but for what he represented in the organization. Nicco had just declared a new direction while maintaining the appearance of respect for tradition.
As the service continued, I found myself once again scanning the crowd, an automatic action I couldn’t seem to control. Lord, I knew he wasn’t here. Yet some part of me kept looking, as if his presence might change things.
When we finally stood to follow the casket out, I felt a strange lightness. The ceremony had done nothing to resolve my feelings about my father, but it had served its purpose for the organization. As we moved down the aisle, I caught Nicco’s eye. He gave me a small nod of acknowledgment.
Outside, under a clear blue sky that seemed inappropriately cheerful, I prepared myself for the next performance. The repast was where the real business of the day would be conducted over food and drink, alliances reinforced, and new arrangements discussed. My father was being laid to rest, but the organization moved forward.
Chapter Three
MAURIZIO
The private dining room at Carlito’s Authentic Italian Cuisine hummed with boisterous conversation and hearty laughter. Waiters in crisp white shirts circulated with trays of antipasti and glasses of dark red wine. I’d been greeted by everyone important. All pretense of grieving was over, and it seemed that all the people in attendance were celebrating.
I sat at a corner table, a plate of untouched food before me, watching the careful dance of power and respect playing out across the room. Capos and made men clustered in small groups, voices low, occasionally glancing toward Nicco, who held court near the rear of the room. I sipped water instead of wine, needing clarity to navigate the afternoon. The worst of the funeral was over, but I knew from experience that family gatherings like this often held unexpected complications.
My cousin Frankie called from Chicago to offer his condolences. Frankie and I grew up together. He was twenty-eight, like me, and we were more like brothers. When he was appointed capo of Chicago, I was just as shocked as he was. I missed him. Nicco and Cenzo were cool, but I never had the same bond with them that I did with Frankie. Cousin Valentinawas a girl, and she pretty much stayed away from my childhood home when we were young. I think she was afraid of my father. Now I believe she was kept away on purpose. Maybe for reasons I didn’t want to think about.
Cenzo had disappeared shortly after our arrival, drawn into a conversation with several New York associates. I didn’t mind the solitude. It gave me space to breathe, to process the morning’s events without maintaining the mask of dutiful son. A waiter approached with a tray of small arancini, but I waved him away. My stomach was knotted too tight for food.
I was contemplating a discreet exit when I noticed Nicco moving purposefully across the room toward me. Three people followed in his wake. There was an older Italian woman with silver-streaked dark hair and two adults, a woman and a man. Something in their bearing, in the way they moved, struck me as familiar in a way I couldn’t immediately place.
“Maurizio,” Nicco said as they reached my table. His voice carried an unusual tone. “There are some people you should meet.”
I stood, smoothing my suit jacket automatically, my mind racing through possibilities. Business associates? Distant relatives paying respects? I couldn’t place any of the three faces standing a few feet from me.
“This is Myra,” Nicco said, gesturing to the older woman. “Your father’s first wife.”
The words brushed past me slowly. First wife? My father had been married before. I’d heard my mother mention this a time or two when she’d been drinking heavily.
“And these,” Nicco continued, seemingly oblivious to my shock, “are your half-siblings, Gianna and Michael.”
I stared at them, unable to fully process what Nicco was saying. Half-siblings. People who shared my blood, who had existed my entire life without my knowledge. The womanGianna had hair like mine. Michael was taller, broader through the shoulders, but something in the set of his jaw was unmistakably Bregoli. He resembled my father, our father.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Myra said, her voice gentle but firm. She extended her hand, and I took it automatically. “I’ve heard about you over the years.”
“I, I hadn’t heard about you,” I managed to say. The words clumsily and rudely came from my mouth. “Any of you.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Michael said while his eyes assessed me carefully. “I’m sure Gianni wanted to forget we existed.”
I shook his hand, then Gianna’s, feeling like I was moving through a dream. The lady, my half-sister, was named after Gianna. Their faces were a strange mix of familiar and foreign echoes of my father, of myself, blended with features from a woman I’d never known existed until this moment.
Myra studied my face with the kind of careful attention that made me want to look away. “You have his eyes,” she said finally. “The same shape.”
I wasn’t sure whether she meant it as a compliment or an accusation. Perhaps both. “How long were you married?” I asked, struggling to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about my father’s life.
“Ten long years,” she replied. “I left when Michael was ten and Gianna was six. I took the children and escaped. It was necessary.”
Escaped? An odd word to use, but somehow, I knew she meant it. I didn’t need her to elaborate. I knew exactly what kind of man my father had been. What kind of husband was he to his first wife? What kind of father was he to his first kids? If he treated this woman anything like he treated my mother, I was just glad she made it out alive.
“We grew up in Oregon,” Gianna offered, her voice softer than her brother’s. “Mom remarried when I was ten. We took our stepfather’s last name, Gapen.”
“Did he, did my father ever try to find you?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.
Michael’s expression hardened. “I’m not sure. When I was sixteen, I met Uncle Dom and Nicco.”
“You did?”
