She gives me a shaky smile before her face crumbles. “I can’t do this, Emilia. I can’t do this.” She speaks in a low voice that only I can hear. “Your father was my rock. I can’t do this without him.”
“You’ll have to.” I hate to say it, but it’s true.
“I know. Thank goodness I have you.” She pats my hand before taking her seat.
I look behind me at my sister, Gemma. She sixteen and the second oldest. We look so alike with our blonde hair and fair skin, but we’re very different people. Gemma is rebellious; she likes to push boundaries. I guess my dutifulness has allowed her to be like that. I’ve always been there to pick up the pieces. She’s looking down at Dad now, her face scrunched up. She’s trying not to cry, too. I lean in close to her. “It’s ok. You can cry.”
A gasp escapes her before tears begin to stream down her face. The minute she cries, the rest of my siblings follow suit. Francesca, who’s fourteen, cries silently, hiding behind her brown hair.
Antonio, next in line, tries to stand tall. Other than myself, he has the most pressure being put on him with our dad dying. He’s not ready to be a boss at twelve years old. I’m not sure how he’s going to handle it. What I do know is that I’ll have to be the one to help him through it.
Cecilia holds onto the cross around her neck as she prays for our dad. I can see her speaking to it, searching for strength. At only ten, she’s already the most religious in my family, despite us all being catholic. With her platinum blonde hair, she stands out in a crowd, and I can already see the men in the room looking at her. It’s disgusting. She’s just a child and so innocent. She truly believes Dad is up in heaven somewhere.
I might not know everything Dad did, but I’m old enough to know you don’t become a Mafia boss without doing some bad things. I wonder if Dad is really in heaven or if he’s already rotting in hell. I wonder if that’s the price we’ll all pay someday.
Last in line is my youngest sister, Mia, who’s only eight. The fact that she’s going to live most of her life without knowing our dad is the thought that almost breaks me.
She looks the most like Francesca, even though she’s much more outgoing. She’s not shackled by puberty-driven insecurity, which Francesca is going through at the moment. Losing my dad at eighteen is hard enough. I can’t imagine what it’s like for my younger siblings.
I have to stop myself from stumbling like my mother. She’s crying too hard right now to be of much help. I have to be there for my siblings. They won’t make it through this day without me.
Gemma brushes past me as she sits down in the pew, putting distance between herself and our mom.
“Don’t be so brusque, Gemma,” Mom scolds through her tears. Gemma bristles at the comment but doesn’t respond.
Francesca keeps her head down as she takes her seat, while Antonio keeps his head held high as he does the same.
Cecilia grips my hand. “Dad will be all right. He’s in heaven.” The fact that she can have hope even while crying warms my heart.
“Of course, he is,” I reassure her. She takes her seat next to Antonio.
Mia crumbles before our dad’s casket. Her wails pierce the air in the echoing church.
I rush to her side and wrap my arms around her. “Mia, sweetie. You’re ok. I’m here.”
“Emilia,” she sobs into my chest. “Dad …” She can’t even finish her sentence. I just soothe her as we kneel next to his casket, in view of everyone. Looking around at my father’s men and their wives, I feel disgust. The wives look at Mia with condescending pity while the men have salacious smirks on their face, like the cries of an eight-year-old are humorous to them.
I hate Mafia men, and yet, one of them is my future. I just don’t know who yet.
“Come on,” I murmur to Mia. “Let’s go sit down.” I help her to her seat, but she grabs my hand before I can leave.
“Sit with me,” she says.
“You know I can’t, Mia. Mom wants me to sit next to her. I’m the oldest. It’s my duty.”
“I got her,” Cecilia says, grabbing Mia’s hand. I nod at Cecilia before taking my seat next to Mom. With six of us kids, we’re used to taking care of each other. Mom can only handle so much at a time. It’s usually up to me to handle the rest, and when I can’t, it means my siblings, who are still children, have to do it. It’s not right, but it’s our reality.
Mom leans into me as the priest takes his spot at the podium and begins the ceremony. My mother’s cries are so loud I can barely hear the priest speak. He talks about how my father was a strong and impactful member of the community. How he will be sorely missed. I wonder if that’s true.
I’m sure he has enemies as a mob boss. There are probably people celebrating his death. In fact, some of those people might be in this room. I look around and catch the eye of my uncle, Franco Moretti. He’s about a decade younger than my father, but despite being young and handsome, there’s a hardness to him that my father never had.
His eyes flick to mine, and he nods, his face a mask I can’t make out. I look away without giving anything back.
Once the priest finishes his speech, he invites anyone to come up and say something about my father.
Everyone looks at my mother, but she can’t go up there. She won’t stop crying. It’s up to me, then.
But the moment I stand up, so does my uncle Franco. He motions for me to sit down as he strides toward the podium. I sit down with a flush. Franco has a right to speak. Riccardo was his brother, after all. But Riccardo was my father. It should be my mom or me up there, not Franco. He should have waited his turn, but instead, he took my turn from me.
“My brother was a good man,” Franco starts, his voice clear and even as he speaks. He doesn’t even sound like he’s been affected by my dad’s death at all. “I admired him. I looked up to him. He ruled this city with a gentle touch, which was a miracle given his profession.” A few chuckles fill the room. I personally don’t think my dad’s death is a laughing matter. “It will be interesting to see what happens next. To Riccardo’s son, Antonio. May he reign. And to Giulia, Riccardo’s widow. May she be at peace. And to Riccardo’s girls. May you all find good husbands. Thank you.” He walks away without even looking at my family.
“A weird fucking speech,” Gemma mutters to me.
“Language, Gemma,” Mom scolds. It is amazing how she can still do that while crying.
“Yeah,” I say to Gemma. “It was.” I watch as Franco takes his seat again, looking like the most confident and most powerful man in the room. I hate him for this, and I don’t even know why.
I stand up and approach the podium before anyone else can. “My dad …” I trail off. My voice is amplified by the mic, and it makes me sound strange, like I’m a stranger at my dad’s funeral. Franco smirks. I clear my throat. “My dad could command everyone’s attention the moment he stepped into a room. That was the kind of presence he had. Despite his demanding job, he always made sure to be home for dinner. He never missed our family dinners. He loved my mom.” She cries harder at this. I have to clear my throat again to get passed how choked up I’m becoming. “They had a love that was to be studied. To be admired. They were always there for each other, even in subtle ways. Like Dad doing the dishes when Mom would get overwhelmed. Or Mom taking the time to iron his suit because she knew how much he liked waking up to it. They gave and they took from each other in the best way. I hope to have a love like that someday.” I blink and a wet spot lands on the podium. It takes me a second to realize that it’s my tear. “He also loved us, his kids. I’ll miss him every day, and I know my siblings will, too.” I look at my dad, dead in his casket despite looking alive. “I’ll miss you, Daddy. Cecilia believes you’re in heaven, and I really hope you are.” I hurry away from the podium and back to my seat.
“That was beautiful, Emilia,” Mom says.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She clutches my hand like she’ll die if she doesn’t have me to anchor her to this earth.
After the ceremony, we leave for the reception, which is held across the street at a community center. It’s a strange sight, seeing everyone in their finest black cross at an intersection. I hold onto Mom and Mia’s hands as we enter the building.
Food is already being served. Drinks are already pouring. It’s like everyone has already moved on, despite it being a funeral reception. Only my family and I are left to mourn.
