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Roberto exploded. “You stole my rights! She was mywife!”
“We’re very sorry.” Marshal Rosselli bowed his head, and so did the second- and third-in-command, who each apologized, in turn.
“Who found him?” Roberto shouted, unappeased.
“I did.” The second-in-command raised his hand.
“How did he do it? What did you see?”
“He was hanging from the top horizontal bar, which goes across the others in the back of the holding cell. He had twisted his shirt into a rope, tied it to the top bar and to his neck, then jumped off the bench.”
“Didn’t the other prisoners see anything?”
“We had none. It was a slow night.”
“You just said you don’t have the manpower to monitor them, now you tell me it was a slow night. You should have been watching him!”
Marshal Rosselli interjected again, “I assure you, we will from now on. I’m making changes here—”
“What about his family? Have they been here?”
Marshal Rosselli shook his head. “No, and we haven’t informed next of kin. You got here only half an hour after we—”
“Where does he live? His family will pay for this! They’re dead!Dead!”
Marshal Rosselli’s eyes flared. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do!”
“Then I didn’t hear it.”
“You owe me that address!” Roberto grabbed Marshal Rosselli by his collar. “And don’t try to stop me or I’ll come back for you!”
The Provenzano house was ina terrible neighborhood, among houses in dire need of repair. Stucco crumbled on their façades and shutters hung crookedly. Refuse rotted in the gutter, and laundry on clotheslines would take forever to dry on the dark, narrow street. Most of the residents worked in the nearby tannery, and the air reeked of boiling animal skins, a peculiarly carnal odor.
They found the Provenzano house, and Roberto charged through the front door, followed by Franco. Women, children, and old people packed the hallways, talking, playing, and arguing. They scrambled to their apartments at the sign of trouble, slamming doors throughout the house.
Roberto bounded to the top floor and banged on the apartment door, which flew open to reveal an older woman, skeletally thin in a bed by the window. She turned her head but didn’t try to get up. Her hair had fallen out in clumps, and she had no teeth, which hollowedout her wrinkled face. Franco knew her husband, Gabriele, had taken the blame for Bruna’s murder to pay for her imminent funeral, an act meant to atone for a lifetime of neglecting her.
Roberto stood stricken, his eyes brimming with tears. His chest heaved, but he didn’t move. He didn’t have the heart to harm a widow on her deathbed.
Franco took control of the situation. “Signora, we bring you bad news.”
“What?” the woman asked, hoarsely.
“Unfortunately, your husband is dead. He killed himself in a cell at theQuestura. He was arrested because he killed my sister-in-law, Donna Bruna Maresca.”
“Dio.” The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry he did this thing. I will pray for Donna Bruna.”
“Thank you.”
“May God forgive him.” The woman began to weep, a pathetic whimper, and Franco went to Roberto and squeezed his shoulder.
“Robo, I think we should leave, don’t you?”
Roberto nodded, wiping his eyes.
Bruna’s funeral took place ona sunny morning, and it was the talk of the Conca d’Oro, owing to its size and importance. Franco sat across from the grave next to Elvira and his children, Roberto and Patrizio, and the Marescas. Behind them was Signora Esposito and all of the Fiorvanti family, then assorted noblemen, businessmen, merchants, politicians, judges, and Marshal Rosselli. Mounds of flowers massed around the gleaming graveside, sent by everyone who wanted to curry favor with the Fiorvantis, as well as those who were afraid not to.
