This funeral is for a young man, barely more than a boy, who was gunned down in cold blood by someone he’d never met, someone who didn’t know him. Someone whose boss sought revenge on Armani Bellanti, and wanted blood-for-blood.
Armani isn’t here. I told him to stay at home. His face was the last thing anyone here needed or wanted to see, and for all I know, the Russians could be lying in wait for him and would open fire inside the church. I’ve barely spoken to my husband since my brother’s murder.
Armani did try to comfort me when I told him the news, but he walked away after I rejected him and hasn’t made another attempt since. Is it possible that he feels guilty about what happened? I nearly snort out loud at the thought. As if he’d feel guilty about anything, ever. He’s an iceberg wrapped in steel. Probably the only thing he regrets is the fact that Orloff wasn’t killed in the bakery fire.
As for my brother, I’m sure Armani considers him a casualty of war. Par for the course. Nothing more.
Picking anxiously at my fingernails, my stomach sinks with the sickly realization that it was probably only a matter of time before something like this happened to Sean. He played stupid games with dangerous men, regarding them like his frat buddies instead of the monsters they could be. Give him a few beers and a slap on the back and you could talk him into doing anything. He ran with a bad crowd and my family never discouraged it. In fact, I’m sure my other brothers have also been doing freelance jobs for the local mob families. They aren’t the type to care which ones they work for, either. Their only loyalties lie in who pays the most.
My dad is already muttering about revenge, even though I know he won’t act on it. He’d been griping all morning until Mom finally got him to shut up when the service started. I glance over at him and find his face schooled into a cold, emotionless façade. He may be silent now, but I can still feel his grief and angst. That’s what’s hanging in the air around us.
“Let us pray.”
Father Murphy bows his head. The pianist plays a mournful song that I can’t pinpoint. Someone shifts in the pew in the back, making the wood creak. My hairline starts to prickle.
Discreetly looking back, I reassure myself that it’s not the Bratva here to finish us all off. Though it’s some small relief to know that Armani has this place surrounded by a phalanx of security who will follow us to the gravesite and then back to my family’s home. After that, my parents and brothers are on their own. How long before another of my siblings turns up dead?
Clenching my jaw, I push back my anger at Armani. He’s responsible for this. If he hadn’t gone head-to-head with the Russian, trying to take him out in that goddamn fire, none of this would have happened. A sob lodges in my chest.
I’ve never been close to my brothers, but out of all of them, Sean was the most decent to me. We were the youngest Gallagher siblings, and the closest in age. Growing up, I never got bullied at school, because Sean was always one year ahead of me and his reputation as one of the Gallagher boys meant that nobody dared to mess with me. So in that respect, he sort of indirectly protected me. And yes, he was a braggart and a liar and a showoff…but he loved to have a good time and he always treated me like a human being.
Still, my sorrow is mostly for what our relationship could have been, not for what we did have. The connection we had was tenuous, I know that. But the loss is still hitting me hard. Maybe one day he could have turned his life around. Found love, built a family.
My mom lights a cigarette as soon as we leave the church and head to our vehicles to drive to the cemetery. This is hitting her hard, too. In fact, I’m sure she’s carrying the weight of Sean’s death more than any of us.
“Meet you guys there,” I tell her, nodding to my car.
Though I drive myself, I’m tailed by Armani’s men. My parents don’t know about his involvement in Sean’s murder. They don’t know that my husband was the impetus for his death sentence, and I’m not about to tell them. I can barely bring myself to think about it. They’ll find out in due time, I’m sure. Word gets around through these underground channels. Especially if my other brothers continue doing odd jobs for the local mafia clans.
It drizzles during the burial, which goes quickly. It seems we’ve no sooner gathered around the yawning hole in the ground than my brother’s casket is lowered inside. Mom has a white rose in her hand, but she doesn’t toss it on top of the casket. Instead, she holds it to her chest gently, like a child cradling a doll.
Father Murphy says a few more words. Then dirt hits the casket in thumping shovelfuls. Each one makes me jump a little until I’m desensitized to the sound.
We leave just as the rain starts to pour. I don’t want to go to my parents’ house for dinner now, but it’s my duty. And even if I didn’t feel obligated, I consider it a sign of respect to Sean.
Shockingly, the exterior of the house looks neat and clean when I get there. Even the yard is tidied up, which is really saying something. The fence still sags in places, but the grass has been mowed and the weeds are gone. The porch is swept and free of cigarette butts and beer cans, and when I step inside, I smell pine cleaner and something scented like….and then I see it. There’s a candle burning in the center of the coffee table. Rosemary and maybe citrus.
“It looks great in here, Mom,” I say.
She nods. “Your dad and brothers are getting changed. I need to get dinner ready. You can sit and watch TV or—”
“I can help,” I say. The last thing I want to do is sit around.
She gestures for me to follow her into the kitchen, where she ties on an apron.
“Get the ham out of the oven, okay?”
“Sure.”
Even though I have no appetite, I can see that it looks good, perfectly baked with a sheen of honey glaze over the top. That she knew how to time the baking of this while accounting for the funeral is a skill I certainly didn’t inherit. I can barely boil pasta.
We don’t speak as I help her finish preparing the meal—mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, buttery rolls. Comfort foods, though I’m not sure anyone is going to feel much like eating. Quiet conversation comes from the living room, which has filled with more people than were at the funeral. Some of them are neighbors, some are my parents’ friends or coworkers. I see more young men that probably know my brothers.
“Should have made two hams,” my mom sighs. “I’m not going to have enough food.”
She darts across the kitchen and rummages through the pantry, pulling out three boxes of mac and cheese and a few cans of baked beans.
“Here, get started on these,” she says. “And set the oven to 350. I think I’ve got a meatloaf in the freezer downstairs. We can bake that extra can of Pillsbury rolls, too.”
