Bolzano

the hands of those who had come to share their condolences, and Angelo remembered how her grip was firm and confident. Though the veil hid her eyes, her mouth would occasionally pull into a line of patient interest, as if she were really listening to the sentiments for the first time that day. She dabbed at her eyes beneath the veil and straightened as the next person started, first with the gracious smile. Occasionally, there was something conspiratorial between her and the man whose hand she shook, a light touch on the arm above the elbow, a tip of the head, the way she reached for the wife—the wives of these men always stood just a step behind them—and brought the woman into the circle. Angelo had observed all of this in her before. In over a decade, Gina had not changed. She attracted men like bees to the hive, whilst the women of these men struggled in her presence or even at the mention of her name. They had more likely joined the party, Angelo was certain, to keep tabs on Gina than in full-hearted support of Il Duce.

When it was the Colonel’s and Angelo’s mother’s turn to speak with the general’s wife, Marco said something again, but Chiara shushed him. So…so…the young man was pining after Gina’s daughter. Angelo felt a sense of dread.

Angelo prodded Marco’s arm. “We’ll see them at the cemetery and the wake afterwards,” he said and ignored his son’s scowl.

Just as the Colonel led Angelo’s mother away, the choir began the entrance hymn from the loft above and the crowd around Gina dissipated. The honoured guests and their families took their seats in pews marked especially for them.

Father Mancuso approached the altar, and the congregation stood. “The grace and peace of God, our Father, and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

“And with your spirit,” Angelo murmured with the others.

They sat for the first reading, and Chiara leaned over Marco a little. “We’re not attending the wake, are we?” she whispered to Angelo.

He kept his eyes on the front of the church. “We’ll see,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Marco hissed. “I thought we were.”

“I think I’m getting a headache,” Chiara murmured.

Angelo looked sharply at her. She gave him a weak smile and a shrug.

They all stood for the Holy Gospel, and Angelo made the sign of the cross, his attention again in Gina’s direction. She was leaning into Filipa, a hand went up to her face, and her shoulders shook a little. He narrowed his eyes: theatrics or genuine grief? What was it about the general and her?

There was something about Gina that every man wanted to own, wanted to possess. Angelo had felt that himself, had known that night at the Laurin Hotel that if she got any deeper under his skin, he’d be maddened by jealousy and lose all caution. But the Gleno walls had burst that following morning, and if that had not come between them, Angelo was certain a more personal kind of disaster would have happened.

When Father Mancuso began the Lord’s Prayer, Angelo leaned back and tapped Chiara’s shoulder. “We’ll share our condolences and then go,” he said when he had her ear.

Chiara’s smile was genuine, but Marco whispered, “I’m going to the wake, with or without you.”

They made it to the final blessing. Father Mancuso called upon the pallbearers, and the Contis’ pew emptied. Gina and her four children stepped behind the casket for the procession to the cemetery. He watched Gina, trying to get her to notice he was there, but as they passed Angelo’s pew, she was focused only on the coffin. His disappointment irritated him. What the hell had he expected?

At the cemetery, Marco went to where his grandparents were closer to the grave, whilst Angelo and Chiara stood back three people deep. He could barely spot Gina and her brood through the crowd of mourners. The dirt hit the coffin before it was lowered, and then the people in front of him lined up again to meet with the Contis. Angelo queued with Chiara next to him.

“Marco really wants to go to the wake,” he whispered to her.

“Is it that Filipa?”

Angelo nodded.

“Let him go then. We hardly know them. Nobody will miss us.” She touched his arm, and he looked at her. “In church, Marco said you don’t approve of any of the young ladies he’s interested in. What did he mean? Who are they?”

Angelo sighed and looked away. “I don’t know what he’s going on about. Besides, it’s you who disapproves of the youth groups. If there is anyone he should hold a grudge against, it’s you. I don’t know why he’s fighting me at every turn.”

Chiara made a sound. “Marco is trying to find his way.”

Angelo moved forward a few steps with the rest of the queue. When he caught sight of Gina’s hat and the veil, that longing stabbed at him again.

“Whatever he’s holding against you,” Chiara continued, “it will pass.”

Two more people and then Angelo would be face to face with Gina. He pressed Chiara forward and felt her stiffen.

“Signora Conti,” Chiara said softly and took the hand Gina offered her. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Gina started to shake Chiara’s hand, Angelo noting that she was in automatic mode, but then she paused and tipped her head to peer out from under her veil. She looked from Chiara to Angelo, and her entire demeanour changed. Her shoulders fell back, a smile crept along her lips, and she exhaled softly.

“Signora Grimani, thank you for coming. Thank you.” She released Chiara’s hand at the same time as she reached for Angelo’s with her other hand and pulled him to stand before her. Beneath the veil, her eyes flashed.

“Minister Grimani. Angelo.”

At the sound of his name so intimately uttered, he felt a prickle