Rosa's funeral was held on a grey Thursday morning at St. Patrick's Cathedral.
The entire underworld of New York came to pay their respects. Not just Dante's people, but representatives from every family the Castellanos, the Russos, the DiMarcos, even the Chinese triads and the Irish mob. Rosa had been beloved, one of the few truly good people in our dark world, and her death had shaken everyone.
I stood beside Dante at the front of the cathedral, dressed in black, my hand in his. He hadn't said much in the three days since the penthouse. Hadn't cried again after that night in the shower. He'd gone cold and distant, the don fully in control, emotions locked away.
It scared me.
"She would have hated this," he murmured as the priest droned on in Latin. "All this pomp and ceremony. She would have wanted something simple. Family only."
"We are family," I whispered back. "All of us. That's what she taught you, isn't it? That family isn't just blood."
