Becca.
We dressed in funereal black, standing at the head of a receiving line while family came to pay their respects at a wake at the compound. There would be another wake at the Cathedral, a full Catholic Mass, and then a procession to the mausoleum where the late Don Valentino would be buried.
People had been bringing food for days. People of all walks of life who knew or felt indebted to or were associates with Don Valentino. I'd heard the kitchen staff say we had more food than we knew what to do with. James had told them if we had too much, to arrange with a local parish to distribute it to the poor.
I stood at James's side. I wasn't his wife, but I was the mother of his child, and he'd decided my place at the funeral was right beside him. I did get a few curious looks, but I was
