Jessie Keane - Lawless

Maria was taking her hand, squeezing it. Bianca snapped back to the present, looked at her sister-in-law, the poor cow.

‘He’s in a better place, you know. Tito, I mean,’ she said.

Bianca took her hand away.

A better place?

She knew that plenty of people would think Tito was destined for hell, particularly the one who’d killed him. And she wanted to know who that was; she was desperate to know who the bastard was who had robbed Tito of his life and brought such devastation on her family. Adopted or not, she had absorbed the culture she’d been taken into. She was a true child of the Camorra, and that was a proud and unforgiving heritage.

When she found out who was responsible, she would have her revenge.

She swore it.

It was freezing cold and windy as the mourners filed inside the church. Outside, some brave early daffodils were being tossed in the breeze and flattened into the muddy soil. It was scarcely warmer inside the building. The atmosphere was grim. The organist was playing a dirge, appropriately sad for a Requiem Mass.

Many had come to pay their respects, because they had to. The Danieris expected it. Tito might be gone, but there was still Vittore; there was still Fabio. Failure to attend would be noted, and frowned upon. Everyone knew that.

Loitering outside were a couple of plain-clothes policemen, noticed but ignored by the bulk of the mourners. The police had only recently released the body, and ‘enquiries were ongoing’ into Tito’s murder. But so far no one had been arrested and everyone knew that the police wouldn’t dig too deeply or trouble themselves too much: obviously it was another gangland killing, one of many that occurred every year around the city, nothing too remarkable.

Bastards , thought Bianca, walking up the aisle beside Maria, both of them curtsying and crossing themselves before the altar before joining Mama in the front pew.

‘Where have you been ?’ demanded Bella of her daughter.

Bianca squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Sorry. Traffic. Got held up.’

‘Have you seen Fabio?’

‘He’s just arrived, we saw him as we came in. He’s…’ Out there, unloading the coffin.

Bianca couldn’t bring herself to say the words. They choked her, cut off her breath. All the way here, she had felt sick with horror. Traffic slowing the cars down, holding her up, had been yet another twist to the torment, prolonging this when she just wanted it to be over.

She thought then, very briefly, of the man’s face, the one in the car going in the other direction. Dark skin, blue eyes, something autocratic in his bearing…

‘Fabio’s a good boy,’ said Bella.

Bianca came back to the here and now. Her mother was still talking about Fabio. ‘Good’, in her opinion, was pushing it. Fab had a certain laddish charm, but he couldn’t pass a mirror without kissing it. ‘Good’ wasn’t a word she would ever associate with him. He’d bullied her all her life, hated her on sight. He wasn’t ‘good’ at all. But Mama Bella was nodding, affirming her opinion of her youngest son to herself.

She looks exhausted , Bianca thought, feeling the emotion of the day rise up and almost stifle her. She was glad of the thick black veil she now wore pulled down over her face, identical to her mother’s. It hid the tears that spilled over and slid down her cheeks. She bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood.

Bianca glanced behind her, seeing the mourners shuffling inside. Among them she saw a tall dark-skinned woman moving near the rear of the church, her eyes downcast.

‘What’s she doing here?’ asked Bianca, gulping back her tears.

Bella looked up, saw who Bianca was staring at, said nothing.

‘Isn’t that Ruby Darke?’ said Bianca. ‘The woman who runs the department stores? Did she know Tito? Oh wait – wasn’t she involved with Michael Ward…?’

Bianca fell silent. Ruby Darke was also the notorious Kit Miller’s mother, and there were rumours circulating like Chinese whispers that Tito’s death could have been a revenge killing for the death of Michael Ward. That pointed to Miller, who had been Ward’s number one man. But these were merely rumours, unfounded, unsubstantiated. There was no proof, nothing positive to suggest they could be true.

‘I asked her to come,’ said Bella.

Bianca’s head whipped round. She stared at her mother. ‘You what? Why?’

‘I have to talk to her.’

‘Mama, you’ve taken leave of your senses,’ said Bianca, shaking her head. ‘You know what’s being said…’

‘Yes, I know. That’s why I want to talk to her.’

‘But-’

‘Hush! Show some respect,’ said Bella, her tone sharpening. She looked back. ‘Ah, dear God, my boy, my poor boy…’

They were bringing in the coffin. The music swelled, the priest came forward in his ceremonial robes. Bianca, Bella and Maria rose to their feet along with the rest of the congregation as the pall-bearers came up the aisle, carrying their sad burden. Bianca felt her mother sway and she grasped her arm, held her steady. She felt as if her heart was being ripped, still beating, from her chest.

Ah, Tito…

She thought of Tito cuddling her in his arms when she was small, kissing her forehead, murmuring words of comfort. He’d taught her so much, shared the ways of the Camorra with her. Her big brother, she’d loved him so. It crucified her that he had died, a man in his prime, with no wife, no children, to lament his passing.

Bianca watched the grim procession of pall-bearers pass by with the coffin. Vittore was there, giving solid support at the front, with the slighter Fabio immediately behind him, smartened up in a black suit, his almost girlishly good-looking face and hands marred by scratches and cuts. The mahogany coffin was covered in a luxuriant mass of red hothouse roses formed into the shape of a cross. The men moved slowly, placing their burden carefully on the dais while the priest looked on.

For Bianca the whole thing was torture. It was all she could do to watch as the coffin was sprinkled with holy water and then it was incensed. Prayers were said for Tito’s soul and the choir sang ‘On Eagle’s Wings’. Then came the funeral Mass and absolution, with candles lit around the coffin.

And then they were all outside in the biting wind, gathered around the freshly dug grave. The elderly priest intoned his words of conclusion: ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

At last, it was over.

Having kept a tight grip on her mother throughout, Bianca could feel Bella trembling, shuddering with sobs. To bury one’s own child must be agony. The crowds of mourners began to disperse, leaving only close family by the graveside. Then Bianca saw Ruby Darke again, standing alone some distance away from their silent little group.

‘What the fuck’s she doing here?’ asked Fabio.

Bella stepped forward and slapped her youngest son’s face. ‘Shut up! You are in a place of worship, standing at your brother’s grave,’ she snapped.

Maria’s eyes met Bianca’s. Maria was mouse-like in the presence of her forceful mother-in-law. Bianca felt almost sorry for her sometimes, when she wasn’t feeling scornful over Maria’s lack of backbone. Bianca loved Mama, but she knew she could be manipulative, and Vittore was a sucker for her machinations. Maria, who was not bright, was no match for Bella. In Maria’s place, Bianca would have given Bella a hell of a fight.

‘Go now, all of you,’ said Bella imperiously. ‘I wish to talk to her alone.’

‘Mama-’ started Bianca.

‘Go home. Go back to the house, Bianca. Make sure everything’s ready for our guests.’