The room is cold and barren, with fluorescent lights overhead. There’s no warmth here, and why should there be? It’s a funeral, after all.
We stand in a line from oldest to youngest as the guests give us their condolences. I have to nod and smile at these men despite how sad I am. They expect it. I’ll be labeled a bitch or difficult if I don’t smile. That’s how Mafia men can be. It gave me hope that my dad was different and that he was teaching Antonio to be different. But now that Dad’s gone, I can only worry.
Franco approaches us, grabbing my mom’s hands before she can even react. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Giulia. I can tell how hard this is on you.”
She tries to pull her hands back, but he holds on. “It must be hard for you, too. Riccardo was your brother.”
“He was. But he was your husband. I hope you’ll do well on your own. You’re still young. You have many more years of childbearing. It’s a shame you’ll have to waste it.”
I stare at Franco hard. That’s such a horrible thing to say to my mother. But she doesn’t reply. She just smiles stiffly.
It’s Gemma who replies. “Why the fuck would you say that to her?”
“Gemma,” Moms scolds again. “Language. And don’t.”
“Yes,” Franco says, letting my mom’s hands go. “Don’t. Children should be seen and not heard.”
Gemma stands up taller. “I’m sixteen. Not a child.”
“Mmm. You still are in so many ways.” Franco’s eyes land on me. “But Emilia here is finally an adult. How does it feel?”
“It feels fine,” I respond.
“Right.” He gives me a once over before turning back to Giulia. “If you ever need anything, give me a call.”
Mom nods shakily. Franco gives her a wink before strolling away.
“Are you ok?” I ask.
“I will be. I have to be.”
I stare at my mom for a few seconds longer. Even though what Franco said was disgusting, he was right about one thing. My mom is still young. She’s only in her late thirties, having had me when she was eighteen. I can’t imagine becoming a mother yet. I feel like I have so much more to learn.
My dad was significantly older than her, but it never seemed to affect their marriage. I wonder how much older my husband will be.
After we finish accepting everyone’s condolences, Mom stands before the group of people. “I wasn’t able to speak at the ceremony, but … now, I feel more able to.” Her face is red from crying. It doesn’t diminish her beauty in any way. Her blonde hair still manages to sparkle in the sunlight streaming through the window. Her blue eyes look like their shining even more after all of her tears. The men in the crowd are captivated by her.
“Riccardo was my world,” she continues. “He was a strong leader. And now, it’s up to my son, Antonio, to take over.” She motions for Antonio to come stand by her. He’s like a little male version of her, just as pale and blond. She pulls something out of her purse. It’s a pendant with a wolf crest on it. The crest of my family. Antonio’s eyes light up at the sight of it.
“Is that dad’s?” he asks, his voice still small and squeak. Puberty hasn’t quite hit him yet.
“It is. And now, it’s yours.” She puts the pendant around his neck. “Be a strong leader like your father.”
Antonio stands up taller. “I will.”
I look over at the crowd and notice how Franco’s face looks pinched as he watches the exchange between my mother and brother.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. It’s a relief when we all finally go home. But the minute I step through our front door of our brownstone, I feel like I’m slapped in the face. Dad is officially not coming back home.
I kick off my shoes and shuffle over the couch, plopping down onto it. Gemma joins me. Antonio is showing Cecilia his pendant, the two of them whispering as they walk up the stairs to their respective rooms.
Mia snuggles in next to Giulia on the other couch. Francesca tentatively approaches our mom. “Could you help me undo my zipper?”
Mom doesn’t respond.
“Mom?” Francesca repeats.
“Mom,” I say, nodding at Francesca.
Giulia blinks, and her eyes zero in on Francesca. “Oh. I didn’t see you there. What did you need?”
“My zipper?” Francesca asks.
Mom sighs, hugging Mia in closer. “What? I’m too tired right now to help with anything.”
Francesca looks like she’s about to cry all over again.
“Here.” I say to her. “I got it.” I unzip the back of her dress, and she gives me a small nod of thanks before rushing off to her bedroom. “You shouldn’t ignore Francesca, Mom.”
“I wasn’t.” She plays with Mia’s hair. “She’s just so quiet; I didn’t even notice her at first.”
“That’s because you can be such a bitch to her,” Gemma mutters.
Mom shoots a glare at Gemma. “I’ve had enough with your attitude, Gemma. Either sit there and be quiet or go to your room.”
Gemma gives the biggest eye roll that only sixteen-year-olds can manage before standing up and dramatically trudging out of the room.
“What now?” I ask Mom.
