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In many ways, Eduardo was more of a father to me than my own.
It hits me then, harder than it did at Lorenzo Valachi’s funeral, that I have no father now. I am a fatherless girl, and for all intents and purposes, a motherless one, as well. I have no one except my sister and my husband.
As Damon continues to speak, my gaze drifts past him, several feet away, to the concrete stone that marks my father’s grave. A set of incomplete dates for my mother is inscribed on the nextstone, ready for her when she leaves this world. I insisted that we bury Eduardo here, with the Valachifamiglia. He deserves this place of honor in our world.
Angel has a headstone here, too, but we didn’t give him a funeral. His honor was too tarnished for our mafia world to pay him homage with a proper burial. Ivan, Damon, Lulu, and I know his grave is empty, and there was no point to the subterfuge of a funeral ceremony.
All of the families provided extra security for Eduardo’s burial, even though he’s being laid to rest on Valachi land, and the chances of anyone bursting upon this gathering of these people are slim. It’s their way of paying their respects by recognizing the part he played in our lives, a nod to the protector he was.
I look around at the faces of Evie and Cassidy, Luca and Carina, and Enzo and Rowan, taking note of everyone who came to wish Eduardo godspeed. Everyone else here is security or a random, unconnected acquaintance.
Eduardo didn't have a family other than us. He left that part of his life back in Mexico when he moved to the States to make a better life for himself. I wonder now if there’s anyone we need to contact, someone we need to let know of his death.
Father Greco takes over for Damon and begins to speak. He has the honor of making the final address. I don’t hear the words, only the resonant tones of the priest's voice. It’s obvious that he does this frequently.
It’s equally obvious that he did not know Eduardo. He does not deserve the honor of speaking about him, but I suppose someone has to do it.
He talks too long, going on and on about eternity and heavenly rewards. My fists clench around the wadded-up tissue someone pressed into my hand.
I need him to stop. To shut up.
Ivan shifts his weight in the chair beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. His warmth curls around me, a blessed reminder that he’s alive. I’m alive.
We’re here, breathing.
Finally, the service draws to a close. A few people shuffle off in the direction of their vehicles; others huddle together, smoke from cigarettes curling into the blue sky above their heads. The cemetery attendants wait patiently; they won't lower the casket until we’re all gone.
Dropping his hand to my waist, Ivan begins to steer me toward the line of parked vehicles, pausing as Luca Marzano raises his hand. “Ivan, a word?”
Wordlessly, his hand still resting on my waist, Ivan starts over to him. I walk beside him, my heels sinking into the sod.
Luca stands next to Carina, the General Queen of the West and an older man I do not recognize. Luca tosses a cigarette on the ground and stubs it out as we draw near.
“Emilia couldn’t make it?”
Emilia—Mila—is Ivan's little sister. I met her once, during the fitting for Carina's wedding. I guess that’s why Luca asked after her.
“No,” Ivan replies briefly. “She couldn't.”
He leaves it at that, his tone inviting no further questions. He sent his sister back to Russia before making his move against Angel, fearing, perhaps, what would happen if she was caught in the middle of things.
Last I heard from her, Mila was chasing some boy from her childhood whom Ivan didn't approve of. I imagine we’ll be heading to Russia for an intervention when this is all over. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen Ivan give a damn about.
“Well, I wish her my best,” Luca says. He shifts slightly, opening up so we can see his company more clearly. “Allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine. Ivan, Waylon Vigneault. Waylon is the police commissioner for New York.”
The last addition is unnecessary. Vigneault is a familiar presence in the news.
Ivan reaches out and shakes the man's hand but doesn't say anything.
Tension fills the space between us. The Code of Omerta forbids mafia from using the police to punish one another. Rats are the worst kind of traitor. The only exception is when a man becomes an Untouchable, a status that Luca had managed to achieve some years ago. He works directly with the police on common issues between our worlds, trying to keep things in balance. This gives him a bit more protection than the average mafioso.
Before Angel called in Azrael, Luca was Untouchable, not only where the authorities were concerned, but even in the mafia world.
Vigneault speaks, his voice nervous but pure Bronx. “I've heard that you are part of the effort to get this whole Azrael situation under control.”
Ivan’s faint Russian accent is more noticeable when he replies. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”
Luca snorts. “Relax, Romanov. Waylon has been helping us run plates and trying to track down these people.”
