Dom lays a hand on my shoulder, the movement enough to have the woman, his Aunt Dina, letting me go.
He waits until she’s back in her seat. Then he turns us. So we’re facing everyone.
Dominic doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
A man in the row behind ours rises, his eyes on me.
The woman next to him comes to her feet.
Slowly, and then all at once, everyone stands.
They all stand.
And they’re all looking at me.
I swallow. And look back.
Feeling the weight of the moment deep in my soul.
Dominic lowers his arm from my shoulders, sliding his hand down the length of my arm until his fingers are twined with mine.
I squeeze his fingers, hard, feeling like I might disintegrate if I don’t have something to hold on to.
Then, with the entire room standing, Dom turns us back around and guides me into my seat.
Without him, I’d collapse onto the hard wooden bench. But, still clinging to his hand, I manage to sink down onto it.
There’s a collective sound of creaking wood as the entire congregation sits after we do.
A moment later, a priest appears at the front of the church, but I don’t catch a single word he says.
The emotions in this place…
The feelings in this place…
Still clutching Dom’s hand with my left, I reach my right hand up to rub at my chest.
I’ve never experienced anything like this before. This sense of family.
Of acceptance.
There are sniffles. A few open cries. The sounds of babies. And still a sense of solemn peace.
This is so different from the other funerals I’ve been to.
And I don’t want to think about those. But I can’t stop myself.
“He is survived by his wife, Barbara, and their two children, King and Aspen.”
I press against my chest harder.
My mother’s fingers pinching me.
Siblings I didn’t know I had glaring at me. Ignoring me.
I squeeze Dom’s fingers.
My first true feelings of being unwanted.
I try to forget.
Sitting alone in a small chapel in Florida. My dry eyes staring at the silver urn on an unadorned stool at the front of the room.
Another tear escapes the corner of my eye.
Walking out into the sun, still alone. More alone than before.
How different would my life be if I’d had someone?
How different would I be if I hadn’t felt so… so fucking alone when I needed people the very most?
How different would I be if I’d had someone to hug when my parents died? How different would it feel to mourn with someone?
Grief swamps me. Sucks me under its wave as I let myself feel everything I missed.
And it feels awful.
It feels so lonely and cold. And endless.
Like it will be my forever.
I blindly reach across with my right hand until I’m gripping Dom’s palm between mine.
I want to hate him.
He settles his left hand on top of our combined ones.
I want to hate him, but I can’t.
His body leans into mine, and he presses his mouth to the top of my head.
A kiss.
A sign of affection.
It’s exactly what I need, but it’s still too much.
I want to crawl into his lap.
I want to hit him as hard as I can.
I want to scream at him. And I want to tell him everything.
I want to tell him about my mother’s funeral. I want to tell him how horrible it was. How much it hurt. How alone I felt.
How alone I feel.
How I haven’t been able to shake that feeling.
It’s been six years… Six years of feeling lost.
Six years of hoping and wishing for someone to come in and save me from myself. Save me from the desperate blank feeling inside me.
But I can’t focus on any of that now. Because the man at my side, the one holding my hands like no one has before, might be my husband, but he’s also the head of the Chicago mafia. And the people filling this room are his family and his men, and I can’t break down here.
I can’t break down next to a mother grieving her son.
I can’t do anything but cling to him.
I’ll have to pick up my pieces later.
CHAPTER 25
Dom
The priest gestures for us to rise for the final prayer, and I reluctantly let go of my wife’s hands long enough to extract the handkerchief from my pocket.
I hold it out for her, and she takes it while the room choruses an amen.
It’s been a long time since I’ve believed in anyone’s god. I’ve seen too much of the underside of humanity to believe in a greater plan, but I do believe in tradition. And in honoring the dead.