by Sadie Black
The news of the death of New York’s once beloved mayor had resonated in the media. For the last week, Luka had dodged reporters who wanted to get the scoop on how he was taking the loss. If Ciara weren’t at his side, supporting him through every phone call and lawyer’s visit, Luka was sure he would have cracked.
Ciara was his rock, his reason to keep moving forward with his head held high. She had soothed his mother when she was at her lowest emotional point, and it was Ciara’s smile that kept him grounded. As family and friends gathered to pay their final respects to Marcello Belmonte, she stood at his side to greet them all. Luka had never met a stronger woman, and when he was able, he intended to repay her for every kindness she’d shown him in his time of need.
Guests continued to trickle in until the funeral director closed the doors. The priest was ready to begin the service. With Ciara at his side, Luka settled into one of the plush chairs in the front row to listen to the priest’s address, dreading the moments to follow. Luka would give his father’s eulogy.
For the last three days he’d agonized over his words and rewritten the speech more times than he cared to admit. It still wasn’t right. How could words ever sum up the life of a man so great? How could sentences capture his brilliance as a leader? Or encapsulate his worth as a father and a family man? The paper tucked into Luka’s inner jacket pocket had been folded and refolded until its creases grew weak and thin. Death was inevitable, but Luka had been unprepared for it. The speech was wrong because the timing was wrong — this wasn’t Marcello’s time. Not when he had so much left to live for.
The priest spoke low and slow into the microphone attached to the lectern. Behind him, Marcello’s urn was in plain view. A window above the viewing area let light in, the urn caught the brunt of the sun’s glare. Luka fixated on the light. The image was worth more than his speech was; Marcello was the light to so many. It was only fitting that he be bathed in it as those closest to him said goodbye.
On and on, through psalms and passages, the priest recited. Luka received little comfort from what was being said, but his mother did. Even in death, Marcello looked after his wife; the religious service detailed in his will was for her benefit. Camilla found comfort in religion that her husband and son never fully understood, and Luka knew the priest’s words did her good.
“... and with that being said, we turn from God’s will and comfort to those of you assembled here today. Marcello was a man loved not only by the Lord, but by all those he came in contact with. Let us now celebrate his life through stories and shared memories. I’d like to invite Marcello’s son, Luka Belmonte, to speak.”
The time had come. Luka took a deep breath and stood from his chair, steeling himself for the speech to come. With the eyes of the audience on his back, Luka crossed the distance between his seat and the lectern, and turned to face them all. The priest wandered to a wooden stool near the wall and climbed seated himself atop it. Arthritic joints slowed his climb and left him looking fragile. How much longer would it be before God called him back to his flock? Death haunted the room, and Luka felt tears sting the backs of his eyes. There was no limit to the sum he’d pay to have his father back.
“Marcello Belmonte was so much more than just a name and a photograph,” Luka began. He gripped the sides of the lectern and leaned a little closer to the microphone, arms shaking. Tears threatened to rise, but Luka kept his mind active to try to work them back. Focus on the words, not the emotions, Marcello would have told him. Speeches were part of his job as mayor, but a eulogy was another creature entirely. Nothing he could have done would prepare him for a task so personal.
“And I’m guessing, because all of you are gathered here today to pay your respects, that you know that as well as I do. What you don’t know as well as I do is what a great father he was.”
Was. The word cracked in Luka’s throat, and he paused to compose himself. At hardly a minute in, he couldn’t give in to tears just yet. He was more in control of his emotions than that.
“The very first memory I have is of my dad. We were out at a park. Back then he wasn’t mayor, he served as a criminal justice judge. I was on a swing, and he pushed me from behind. Each time I went up, I could see a man approaching. I saw him, each time a little bit closer than the last, until my dad caught the swing on the way down, plucked me from it, and hoisted me up onto his shoulders.” Luka smiled as he allowed the nostalgia sweep over his heart.
Clearing his throat, he continued sharing his memory. “In that moment I felt like I owned the world, and I remember I laughed as we made our way across the park and back to his car. Not once did he stop to tell me that we were in danger, that the man coming across the park was a man he’d convicted who was freshly released from prison. Not once did he make me uncomfortable, or betray that there was any trouble. Above all, my dad loved people, and he loved his family most of all. Even when we were in danger, he kept his cool and let me enjoy being a kid. And that’s the side of him I will always remember.”
In the audience, Ciara slipped her hand atop his mother’s. The woman was sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and Luka knew she would only deteriorate from there. For as much as he mourned his father, Luka knew that what she was going through was harder. The man she loved and depended upon had left her forever, suddenly she found herself all alone. How hard would Ciara’s loss hit him? Luka tried not to think of it, and moved on with his eulogy. The speech he had prepared, lay forgotten on the lectern; today, his heart did the talking.
“When I was a little older, my dad took over as mayor of New York City, and I’m sure that’s where most of you know him from. It was a slow, rocky start, but soon everyone loved him. That was the thing about my father — you couldn’t help but fall victim to his charm. In elementary school, my female teachers used to come up with excuses to call my parents in for meetings on the off chance my dad would be the one to show up. Mom can tell you how tired that one got.
The urn with his fathers ashes stood behind him, to his left. In that small marble box was all that remained of a man who had influenced millions, but no one more than his son. Now all that remained were the golden B cuff links on the suit coat he wore. Luka swallowed hard again and cleared his mind.
“Without my dad’s influence and guidance, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. There were many times, some even recent, when my actions made me unlovable. Never once did my father think any less of me, no matter how much he regretted what I had done. Instead, he stayed by my side and coached me through it, just as he did the city. My father is often viewed as the man who stripped corruption from New York’s core, but he did more than that — what my father did was help those who had lost their way to the light.” Emotions began to well again, and Luka blinked back tears. “And just like he did for the city, he guided me back to where I was supposed to be, saw that I was the man that New York needed.”
Luka’s eyes traced over the audience, glancing upon the unfamiliar faces. Older men in business suits his father’s age made up the majority of those in attendance. A few of New York’s most affluent and influential families speckled the crowd. Relatives had come from all across the country to pay their respects. Luka’s gaze swept back over the rows, faces less familiar the further back he went. The very back row was empty, save for one man. Thin, dark gray hair was styled to mask hair loss. A sharp nose. Wrinkles. Piercing blue eyes. But as soon as he’d noticed the man, Luka’s eyes were elsewhere.
A lump rose in his throat, this one impossible to swallow. The break was inescapable, and all Luka could do was hold himself as together as he could as tears began to fall. “My father is in heaven now, making sure that everything runs smoothly. That’s just the kind of guy Dad was,” the tremble in his voice gave way to a sob. Luka clutched the podium, “and that’s the reason I’m going to miss him every day for the rest of my life.”
When the eulogy concluded, the man in the back row stood and tucked his hands into his pockets. For a moment Luka thoug
ht he would applaud, as men often do following speeches. Instead, he cocked his head to the side just a little, fixed his blue eyes on Luka, and then strolled from the room. Not a single person turned their heads to watch him leave, nor did any seem to acknowledge his presence. It was as though the man were a ghost.
All too late, recognition hit.
How long had Vittore Lombardo been sitting there, listening to the eulogy?
A tender hand met his upper arm, and Luka turned his head to find the priest standing beside him. The man, one of Marcello’s old friends, nodded his head politely.
“What beautiful memories you share with your father,” he said softly. “Thank you for that moving speech, Luka. Why don’t you go take your seat and we’ll proceed with our next speaker?”
How long had he been staring out at the audience from the lectern? Disoriented and divided, Luka nodded his head. If he opened his mouth, he knew he risked dissolving into tears. As he contemplated Vittore’s appearance, he returned to the front row, sitting down beside Ciara. Before he’d settled, her hand was on his thigh in a silent gesture of support. Luka took a deep breath, sank back in his chair, and tried to lose himself in her touch. It was no use; no matter how he tried to escape from his head, his thoughts reeled.
What did Vittore’s presence mean? Ciara had voiced her suspicions about the accident, but Luka didn’t want to believe her. He didn’t want to believe that another one of his bad decisions took his father away from him forever. Accidents happened all the time; there was no need to drag the mafia into it. And yet, there Vittore was.
“That was a beautiful tribute,” Ciara whispered into his ear. Her hand moved from his thigh to take his hand. “I’m so proud of you.”
As childhood friends, Vittore had every right to attend Marcello’s funeral. The two men had history, and Luka thought it reasonable that Vittore would want to pay his respects. After all, who would kill a friend over something as petty as a disagreement?
The kind of man who’d see a man nearly beaten to death for saying he couldn’t go through with a job. Gino, unable to breathe without artificial support, had let the Don down, and now the doctors didn’t know if he’d walk again. Vittore was vicious and dangerous, and Luka didn’t know what to think.
So Luka wouldn’t think at all. Not for now. Today was a day to pay respects and say goodbye for the last time. Vittore’s intentions, whatever they were, would still be the same tomorrow.
The next speaker already well advanced in his speech, Luka let himself drown in each syllable rather than the meaning of his words. It was all he could do to keep it together. In the eye of the public, a few tears were classy, but anything more would be perceived as weak. After the funeral the family was set to gather at Gracie Mansion, and should Luka still feel the need to cry, he could do so then. But something told him that once he faced the cold December air, his heart would freeze over as quick as his hands.
His only warmth was Ciara. No matter what he felt, or what should come to pass as far as Vittore was involved, he resolved to keep her happy and safe. Like his father had for him when he was a child, he’d shield her from the cruelties of the world and let her live life with passion.
Luka squeezed Ciara’s hand, and she turned her head toward him and smiled. In time, everything was going to be alright.
* * *
Ciara
“Luka, you have no idea how sorry I am.” An oversized woman grabbed his arm with one hand, and shoved a puffed pastry into her gaping mouth with the other. Cheeks, reddened with a shade of blush far too dark for her complexion, billowed. Ciara wasn’t sure if it was because she was storing food in them, or if all the hot air had nowhere else to go. Ciara had an ear for sincerity, and she wasn’t hearing an ounce of it.
“Thank you, aunt Ernesta. I know it must be hard for you as well.”
Luka was equally as sincere as his aunt, and Ciara couldn’t help but smirk. Aunt Ernesta didn’t care to notice the scalding undercurrent to what he said.
“Oh my little passerotto, you have no idea. We are all so shocked and sad to see him gone. I just can’t believe it!”
A member of the wait staff passed by, holding a platter of sandwich rolls on outstretched fingers. Ernesta lifted a chubby arm and swiped a handful from the plate before the young woman could come to a stop.
“It’s just so fortunate that you won the election before he passed away so you could host the wake here. Marcello never had any family gatherings at Gracie when he was in office, you know. I thought I’d never get to see it. It does my heart good to know that this place is back in the family.”
The larger the family, Ciara assumed, the more oddballs there were. Aunt Ernesta was certainly odd. Dressed in a floor-length dress two sizes too small, eye makeup exaggerated and dark, the woman certainly made an impression.
“I can say with confidence that the mansion is glad you got the chance to visit,” Luka replied. As charming as ever, even his sarcasm went over as sweet as honey. Aunt Ernesta grinned at him like he was a cute little kitten.
“You’re so much like him, my little Luka,” she cooed. “So handsome and polite. If we weren’t related, well, I just don’t know what I’d do with myself.”
Easily fifty years old, with thinning hair and teeth yellowed by tobacco, Ciara watched Luka struggle not to gag. Irritation arched Luka’s shoulder blades, and as it did she slid up next to him and ran a hand down his back to sooth him. Luka played off of her as though they’d planned the interaction.
“Have you met my fiancé, Aunt Ernesta?”
The woman’s beady eyes moved sluggishly from Luka to Ciara, and shamelessly looked her up and down.
“Fiancé?” she asked. “Passerotto, you’re mayor of New York City now. There’s no need to keep up the act — it’s not like they can kick you out. Go find a nice Italian girl and do us proud. Dating a colored girl is good for your image, but you don’t need to to worry about that anymore! You don’t want little mulatto babies, do you?”
“Excuse me?” Ciara’s hand stopped mid-stroke, and her eyes narrowed as she set them on Ernesta. It was no news to her that there were plenty of ignorant people in the world, but very few had the gall to say such hateful things in front of her.
“Oh bella,” Ernesta said, looking back at Ciara with her beady eyes, “don’t get me wrong, I think you’re beautiful and I love black babies! I do. My maid’s little ones are adorable with their big, chocolate cheeks. It’s just our Luka needs a good Italian girl. We wouldn’t want to muddy the bloodline, right?”
Stupid, ignorant bitch! Maybe if she wasn’t so busy stuffing food in her face she could pay more attention to the hate spewing out of it. Ciara clenched her fists and prepared to lash out at her, but Luka interrupted by looping an arm over her shoulders and pulling her in close.
“Ciara is not a pawn, Ernesta,” Luka said, tone scalding. All courtesy extended toward family had evaporated from his tone, and Ernesta looked startled. “She is the love of my life, and you would be best to accept her as a Belmonte, because before the end of next year, she will be one. If you can’t accept who I’ve fallen in love with, then I’d like you to leave our home immediately.”
Ernesta puffed up like a bird in the snow, her beady eyes flicking back and forth between them.
“Luka,” she trilled, eyes settling on him, “don’t you take it that way, too. I’m just saying what needs to be said. Your father would have wanted it that way.”
“My father,” Luka hissed, “made it very clear just what he thought of Ciara by setting aside a quarter mil in escrow for the wedding. And if we’re being so forward now, then I’d like to remind you that my father would’ve wanted his other guests to have a chance at some of the refreshments. So, if you can’t keep your racism clamped down in your fat face, and your grubby hands off the food, then maybe you should leave. No. You know what, not maybe, just leave. Now.”
“Why I never!”
Unable to vent her frustrations through telling
the woman off, Ciara’s hand dropped away from Luka’s back and she took a step away from him. As flattered as she was that he’d stood up for her, she needed to work off the adrenaline that had flooded her system in anticipation of a fight.
“I’m going to go grab a drink,” Ciara told Luka, unwilling to watch his aunt shuffle toward the door. “I’ll find you a little later.”
If he replied, she didn’t hear it. Almost as soon as the words parted from her lips, she slipped into the crowd. Men and women, the majority of them Italian, loitered and chatted. As she moved through the room, Ciara picked up on snippets of their conversations.
“—and then, Marcello looked up from his drink, squinted, and asked if we were in Canada!”
“Do you remember how handsome he looked when he married Camilla? I don’t think I’ll ever remember him another way. I heard in the last few years, he let himself go.”
“No, I don’t think it was suicide—”
“Luka looks just like him at his age, and—”
“—Lydia? I’ll never forget her. A solid ten on ten in my books. I still don’t understand why he didn’t marry her.”
An ocean of men with dark hair in suits and their blonde wives or girlfriends filled the space around her. The longer Ciara’s gaze swept the room, the more out of place she felt. Apart from spray tans, every person invited into Gracie Mansion was pale, herself excluded.
The first time she’d met Luka’s parents, Marcello had expressed a watered down version of the sentiments Ernesta had just spouted. How many other of Luka’s relatives were so full of hate? The real question was: how many weren’t? Ciara slipped past faces she’d met for but a moment in the funeral home, she wondering if she’d made a mistake in investing so much in Luka. If his family didn’t approve, what chance did she stand in the long run? Each generation is guided, for better or worse, by the generation before them. If Luka had grown up in such an environment, what thoughts did he privately harbor?
