“No, he has to deal with Carmine and Stefano.”
“I’m going with him,” Elisabetta interjected, and they all turned to her.
Marco shook his head. “Elisabetta, you can’t. It’s dangerous.”
“Then it will be dangerous for us both.”
Marco looked at her a long moment, then turned to the sound of Nino and his assistants climbing up the stairs. The undertakers entered the kitchen with the stretcher and another black velvet bag. His mother began to cry softly, and they laid the velvet bag on the ground beside Marco’s father. They were about to move him when Marco stepped forward.
“Let me take care of him,” Marco heard himself say.
Nino looked over, sympathetic. “No, Marco. We can.”
“I want to.” Marco crossed to his father, knelt down beside him, and placed his hands underneath his father’s big shoulder, then shifted it onto the velvet bag. Then he did the same thing with the other shoulder, moving him bit by bit.
His father was heavy, but Marco focused his effort. He kept shifting his father over, then sliding the velvet cover of the bag over him. He covered both sides of his father’s body, then zipped the bag partway up, from the bottom.
He heard his mother and Elisabetta weeping, and Emedio praying, but his heart focused on this final task. His tears fell onto the velvet, though he hadn’t known he was crying. He zippered the bag until it reached his father’s chin.
Marco let his gaze take in his father’s face one last time. Beppe Terrizzi was a strong man with strong features, his skin weathered by sun and marked by age, still with the scar on his lip, from where the wolf had bitten him, as a boy. Looking at that scar, Marco realized that his father had been born with a heart that fought and loved with equal ferocity, so it was perhaps inevitable that he and his father would fight each other at times, but also would always love each other, just as strongly.
Marco knew that of the three Terrizzi sons, he himself was the most like his father, and that was why his father had expected the most from him. For his father always expected the most from himself.
He kissed his father on the forehead, feeling the warmth ebbing from his father’s skin. “I love you, Papa,” he whispered, through his tears.
And he knew his father heard him.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE
Rosa
16 October 1943
Rosa sniffled, her tears finally subsiding. Maria had come to the hospital to tell her that her mother was dead, along with Beppe, and that her father and Sandro had been rounded up. The news had overwhelmed Rosa, engulfing her in sorrow and grief. Maria had comforted her, and even cried with her, which helped her through the initial shock. The word of her mother’s murder spread to Dr. Cristabello, Sister Anna Domenica, and her mother’s former colleagues, who had come by to pay their respects. Even now, nuns looked over in sympathy as they swept through the ward, their black habits stark against the whiteness.
Rosa wiped her eyes, trying to fathom the loss. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to her mother, but everyone had told her the amazing story about the Syndrome K ruse and her mother disguised in Sister Anna Domenica’s habit, of all things. Her mother had risked her own life to save Rosa’s, and Rosa loved her so much. She wished David were here, but he was in harm’s way, too. Fear for him made her want to cry all over again.
“I’m so sorry.” Maria held her hand, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. She had on a black dress, but no jewelry, and Rosa remembered the gold crucifix she had contributed to satisfy the Nazi demand for gold, which had been a cruel lie.
“What an awful day.” Rosa pressed Maria’s handkerchief to her eyes. “And Papa, and Sandro, too . . .”
“I didn’t mean to burden you when you’re ill. But I felt you should know as soon as I could tell you.”
“I appreciate that, thank you.” Rosa blew her nose, her eyes stinging. Her chest felt hollow and empty, her mouth dry. She still had a fever, but her own illness was beside the point now.
Maria squeezed her hand. “It is so hard to imagine your mother gone, and Beppe. It’s impossible.”
“I’m so sorry about Beppe.” Rosa had never felt closer to Maria. The two families had always been friends, but now they were joined forever, having a tragedy in common. A wave of despair washed over Rosa, knowing that there would be no justice for her mother’s murder, or for Beppe’s. War welcomed and concealed the most heinous of crimes.
“Beppe tried to save her. I know he died the way he wished to, as a fighter.”