The holy water stung my fingertips.I dipped them again, crossing myself as Father Enzo's voice dripped into the cathedral: *"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."* The Latin washed over me like a falling wave, forcing me under with the weight of all I had lost.Papa's casket gleamed in the light of the stained-glass windows. Mahogany. Gold handles. Nothing but the best for Vincent Romano, even in death. Even when we couldn't afford it.*Especially* when we couldn't afford it.That black dress sat on my body like a second skin; the fabric felt heavy beneath the gaze burning into my back. The people who mattered in Palermo were all here, families whose names appeared in newspapers-all the time, always on the obit page, never on the business page. Men whom politicians shook hands with one moment and buried an enemy the next. "Elena," Alessandro's hands found her elbow, his voice hoarse from maybe cigarettes or grief-it was hard to tell the difference now-edged, "You're sha
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