The dying sunlight pours through the doorway as Father Steven stands with one foot on the porch. His condolences continue to drip onto the pristine marble flooring of the foyer, leaving a puddle of bullshit at my feet.
No one is sorry they’re gone.
Not even this holy man doing his best to sound sincere.
If only he would hurry up and leave.
“Of course, Father. Thank you.” I place my hand on the door, a signal that I’m ready to shut it now.
“If you should need anything, my dear. Please, don’t hesitate to call the Church. We are here for you, for all of your family.” He swallows deeply while his gaze sweeps behind me, looking for my uncle.
Vicente DeAngelo can’t be bothered with such unimportant things as walking the priest who presided over the funerals of three of his nephews to the door.
I wonder how many rosaries he will recite trying to wipe the lies he’s told today from his soul.
My tongue still aches from biting on it while the priest gave glowing eulogies to three men who no doubt, right this moment, sit at the Devil’s table.
“I will, Father. Again, thank you for today. Everything was wonderful.” Inwardly, I cringe.
Wonderful shouldn’t be the word used to describe the day you bury your three older brothers.
Yet, it fits.
His smile falters slightly, the collar tightening around his throat as he swallows again.
“Please let your uncle know I send my condolences again, and if he should have need of anything—” Resting my hand on his arm shuts him up.
“I will convey the message, Father. Really, everything you’ve done for my family is greatly appreciated.”
His expression softens. I wonder if he’d said something out of turn with my uncle. Maybe that’s why he seems so worried right now.
“It’s been a long day, as you can imagine.” I drop my hand from his arm and grab the door again.
He understands the signal this time and nods, stepping completely out of the house.
“Of course. You need your rest.” He straightens, stuffs a black knit hat on his head, and finally leaves.
“Sienna.” One of my uncle’s men appears in the foyer, as though stepping from the shadows.
I’m not used to these men Uncle Vicente has brought with him from Italy. They seem to lurk about waiting for something to happen, so they can either intervene or to report back to him.
“Yes? Uh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” I deadpan.
It’s not this man’s fault my family has laid down roots in the pit of hell.
“Your uncle wants to see you.” His tone is brisk, and his shoulders roll back, the perfect soldier position.
That’s what these men are, soldiers. They’re not associates or friends of the family. They’re Uncle Vicente’s little warriors that he brought with him, as though someone here in this house would conceive of attacking him.
My brothers were his little soldiers, too. If Uncle Vicente called from Italy with an order, they jumped right to it. For a man who lived so far away, he had a tight grip on the strings he used to control his little puppets.
I need to stop thinking such horrible things about them. They’re dead. My brothers, all three of them, were gunned down and killed. They’re gone forever.
Shouldn’t I have more grief in my soul?
“Can it wait? I want to be sure the caterers cleaned up.”
“No.” He sweeps his arm to the left, indicating he’s going to escort me himself. “He’s in his office.”
