At the doors, the rain hits hard and honest. The casket slides into the hearse, and the lid thunks shut. Our fathers and uncles step forward for a nod that is nearly a bow. The heads of houses follow, one by one, paying respects the way our world understands: present, counted, and solemn.
After the procession, we circle back to the side lot. I wave off the line of men who want to shake my hand with heavy condolences and go straight for the long black limousine pulled under the elm. The back window is fogged with small handprints.
I knock twice and open the door.
Livia pops up like a jack-in-the-box, curls riotous around a ribbon Alessia tied there this morning. “Papà,” she whispers, then seems to remember it is a quiet day and tucks the rest of the joy behind her teeth. Cat sits beside her in a simple black dressand Noreen’s shawl, a gentler kind of armor. Her eyes search my face and find too much.
“How was it?” she asks softly.
“Heavy.” I cradle Livia’s cheek with my knuckles, and she leans into it like a cat into the sun. “He deserved better and got our best. It still isn’t enough.”
She nods like she knew the answer before she asked. Livia offers me a folded paper. I open it to a stick soldier with a big smile and a gold star. LEO, she wrote in the wobble of almost-four. My throat closes.
“Can we give this to his mamma?” she asks.
“We will,” I promise. “She’ll keep it forever.”
Over Cat’s shoulder I catch a movement at the portico: my father, Nico, and my mother, Maisy. They look like a painting I have known my whole life. His jaw is iron; her eyes are a soft place he will never admit to needing. They have been furious with me since the fake death. They’ve earned it. I crook a finger in their direction.
“Are you sure?” Cat whispers.
We’re all still jetlagged and exhausted but my parents deserve this.
“They need to meet their girls,” I say, and I’m suddenly more terrified than I was in the quarry.
I step out, rain ticking my shoulders, and open the rear door wide. “Papà. Mom.”
My father stops three feet from the car, measuring rage against curiosity. My mother ignores both and slides right in on a cloud of expensively bottled gardenias.
She sits beside Livia and takes both her hands like treasure. “Hello, little cutie,” she says. “I’m your grammy Maisy.”
Livia blinks, then glances at me for confirmation. I nod. “Grammy,” she repeats, testing it. My mom melts so fast I almost miss the shift.
My father clears his throat outside the door. “Matteo,” he says in that tone that always made me stand straighter. “You let your mother in a car before me.” Then he grins, it’s faint but it’s there. “Smart boy.”
“Get in or get wet, Nico,” my mother says without looking back.
He gets in. The leather creaks ominously.
His gaze lands first on Livia, then slides to Cat and sharpens. I can feel the old man’s mind moving, running security, running risk, running pride and insult and a lifetime of rules.
“Papà,” I murmur, “this is Caitríona McKenna. Cat. And this is Livia.” I say the name like a sacrament. “My daughter.”
His eyes flick to mine. For a heartbeat there is only calculation. Then Livia’s small fingers close around his index finger where it rests on his knee.
“Hi,” she says.
The ruthless mob boss forgets what his face is supposed to do. The lines drop. His mouth softens. It is not subtle. The first granddaughter makes widowers of wolves.
“Ciao, piccola,” he manages finally, so quiet I could fit the words in my palm. “Sono il tuo nonno.”I’m your grandfather.
She tries it out. “Nonno.”
His eyes go glass-bright and he blinks it away like dust. He reaches with his other hand and touches the ribbon in her hair as if it might bite.
My mother has already moved on to fussing. “Why am I seeing my son for the first time in weeks at a church, and why has no one given me a key to the apartment, and look at this child, does she own one cardigan that is not chewing on its own buttons?” She kisses Livia’s forehead, then Cat’s cheek with equal ferocity. “I would like to be very angry with yourpapà,” she tells Livia, “but I have no time because I need to plan a Sunday dinner and a wardrobe and possibly a wedding.”
“Mom,” I warn, and it comes out helpless.
