Chapter Twelve
Domenico Valente
“Don’t speak,” Iremind her, as we power walk to St. Peter’s. “Under no circumstances are you to say a word.”
January nods, her thick veil shifting. “I’m just glad to be saying g-goodbye.”
Her voice cracks and I shove my hand in my pocket to stop myself from reaching out to her.
A middle-aged couple is standing at the front of the church. The man nods but the woman gives me a confused look. “Sorry, this is a private funeral.”
“Si,” I say in a thick accent. “I’m Antonio’s nephew, Enzo. My wife and I are here to pay our respects to Teresa.”
The woman’s expression melts. “Of course. Please, sit anywhere you like.”
I smile and usher January inside. It’s a big church but the pews are packed. The old girl’s getting a hell of a send-off.
“That was Zia Teresa’s daughter, Anna,” January whispers. “How did you know she knows an Antonio?”
“Because she’s Italian. Stop talking.”
“Sorry.”
We find an empty pew and sit. January’s shoulders are shaking and she touches her medallion through her dress. The curve of her breasts is visible through the thick material, and I’m torn between wanting to comfort her and copping a feel. I do neither.
Pretty soon the priest sways in, accompanied by half a dozen altar girls and boys. Altar-children. The ceremony is brief. In between the bible verses and propriety, I catch glimpses of the tough old bird who was always smacking people with spoons and smoked and loved celebrity magazines and slot machines.
January shakes like a leaf the whole mass and I manage to wrap an arm around her. It’s easier to touch her when it feels clinical.
We both stand to take the Eucharist and I feel January watching me through her veil, probably wondering if I’m a big enough asshole to blaspheme the Catholic Church on top of all the other shit I’ve done.
“Don’t worry, Tits,” I murmur. “I’m a murderering shitlord, but I’m fully fucking confirmed over here.”
“Oh my gosh,” she mumbles, turning away.
The best part of the funeral is the end where there’s a picture slideshow. You see the old girl, all smooth and pretty in her wedding dress, wearing party hats at her kid’s birthdays and dancing at their weddings. Then I see tween January, arm in arm with her Zia in some park somewhere. She looks so young and pretty, it nicks at the side of my neck like a razor.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur into the side of her veil. “Your Zia looks so proud of you.”
January lets out a sob. I hold her closer and wish I really was Enzo or whoever the fuck I’m pretending to be. That life had been different for both of us.
When the ceremony is done, I hustle January from the church. Even in a veil she’s got the body of a sex demon and I look cute as fuck in my black suit. Between the two of us, we’re attracting way too much attention.
“Sorry, can I please go to the bathroom?”
“Make it fast. And no fucking talking.”
“I won’t.”
I wander outside to wait for her. I pull off my jacket and throw it over one arm as I roll up my sleeves. I sweat like a sinner in suits, especially with the collar all done up. It’s almost enough to make me wish I was a chick. There’s a cluster of four old guys standing around an olive tree and smoking like nicotine gives life. I always enjoy watching old boys smoke but today it pisses me off. I can just imagine the first drag, the fire kick-starting my lungs.
But I won’t smoke. When I make my mind up about something, it’s done.
Seventeen years ago, I looked in Parker’s psychotic face and knew I wouldn’t sell my drug to him. Not for all the money in the world. Morelli told me not to make an enemy of such a fucked-up dude.
“You’ll create more things,” he said. “Better things. Put aside your pride and let Parker have this.”
But I didn’t want to. There were the flaws in the formula that sent Alessia to the hospital, but there was also the fact that I didn’t like Parker. Didn’t trust what he could do with a drug that turned women on.
