Chapter 8 - The Assumption on the Avenue
The Feast of the Assumption in the Old Ward was a celebration of noise, smoke, and ancient loyalty. The streets were blocked off with wooden barricades, the air thick with the smell of frying sausage, powdered sugar, and the heavy incense from the open doors of St. Jude’s Church.
The Bellandi sedan arrived at eleven o'clock, the black paint reflecting the bright, hot August sun.
When the door opened, Lucia Bellandi was lifted out by Rocco, her navy dress covered in a beautiful lace veil that had been brought from Italy fifty years ago. She sat in her chair with her head high, her pearl earrings catching the light like small stars.
Mara stepped out of the opposite door. She was wearing a simple, tailored dark green silk dress that hit just below her knees, her hair pinned into a smooth, elegant twist that mirrored the style Bianca Vail had once worn—but without the lacquer, without the coldness, and without the diamond that had been bought with stolen concrete.
Nico walked between them, his dark gray silk tie matching the shade of Mara’s dress perfectly. He didn't hide his mother in the back; he pushed her chair down the center of the avenue himself, his men forming a moving wall of dark suits that kept the festival crowd six feet away from her wheels.
As they reached the steps of the church, a small group of people from the old neighborhood stepped forward, their hands lifted in greeting, their voices shouting out the old name with a reverence that had nothing to do with fear.
“Lucia! Lucia, look at you! You look like a queen today!”
The old woman smiled, her wrinkled hand reaching out to catch Mara’s fingers as they walked through the heavy oak doors into the cool, candle-lit darkness of the nave.
“They always look at the dress, Mara,” Lucia whispered as they reached the front row, where three velvet cushions had been placed on the dark oak bench. “But my son… my son is looking at the hand that holds mine.”
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Mara looked up at Nico, who was standing beside the aisle, his eyes scanning the balcony for any anomalies before he sat down. When he caught her gaze, he didn't give her the flat slate of the Don; he reached out, his long, scarred fingers closing over hers in front of the entire parish, his signet ring cold and solid against her skin.
The service was long, filled with Latin chants and the heavy tolling of the bells, but for the first time in thirteen years, Mara didn't feel the weight of the tray against her hip. She felt the weight of a name that had finally found its proper place at the head of the city.
