Sophia sat in the cool, empty church. She had been sitting there for almost two hours. She wore a lace veil over her face and clutched her rosary.
She had tried to pray, but her mind had blurred. She could do nothing but listen, her face cupped in her hands as she knelt. Footsteps came and went; voices echoed; there were whispers from the confessional. Twice she had risen and moved closer, only to stop and kneel down again. She had no tears left, and the small yellow pills Graziella had given her wrapped everything in a distant haze.
She had asked the maid to clear the children's toys away and take them to a children's home along with their clothes. Constantino's clothes had also been removed. The large apartment was empty, desolate, and she was so lacking in energy that she spent most of her time in bed, the blinds drawn, the pills giving her deep, dreamless sleep.
The church was the only place she went to, and for three days she had come, needing to confess, needing to tell someone, but had been unable to enter the confessional. The priest knew who she was and knew of her loss, but he did not approach her, did not intrude on what he believed were her prayers.
The candles she had lit for her sons and her husband were flickering, almost at an end, and she quietly got three more. She lit them and stood staring into the flames beneath the Virgin's feet. Two women knelt, praying, the clicking of their rosaries like small hammers to Sophia.
The confessional was empty, and she inched closer, closer… Then she moved quickly to swish the curtain aside. Once in the small dark booth she forced herself to speak, but her voice was so low that the priest had to ask her to speak up.
"I have sinned, Father."
He leaned closer. Her voice was so husky he could barely hear her. He encouraged her to continue.
"I have sinned, Father."
The priest scratched at a gravy stain on his cassock, then folded his hands. "Ease the pain in your heart; say what you feel you need. There is time. Take your time. I am just here to comfort you, to pray with you."
"I had a child, a son. I was very young. I left the baby in an orphanage. I intended… I wanted to go back for him, but first I needed to tell his father, explain to him."
The priest waited. He saw her hand, a delicate white hand with blood-red nails, the fingers threading through the grille. He touched her fingers, gently. His hand felt warm, soft. She withdrew her hand.
"Did you tell the father of your baby? Tell him of his son?"
"I couldn't, Father. I couldn't."
"Were you afraid? Afraid of rejection?"
"No… no, you don't understand-"
"I can only understand, be of help to you, if you tell me everything."
"He died, he died… I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell anyone."
"So the father of your baby was dead. What did you do then?"
She gave a short, humorless laugh, then sat silent for more than five minutes. The priest's stomach rumbled loudly, and he looked at his watch.
"I married his brother, Father."
"And what of your child?"
"I never went back for him. I left him. I never told anyone he even existed. I left my baby in the orphanage. I left him…"
He heard the brass curtain rings clicking and peered through the grille as Sophia ran from the church.
Emanuel watched Graziella being driven away in her car. The stenographer asked if he would need her further, and he shook his head. He was tired; he didn't want to continue working.
He had done what had to be done; if it appeared hard, cruel even, it would in the end prove a kindness. Graziella would have been put through worse on the stand, and she had, as he had known to begin with, no evidence that he could use. He had simply wasted his valuable time.
Sophia kicked off her shoes while pouring herself a vodka. She took two Valium and lay down, fully clothed, on her bed, and drained the glass. But she could not forget. She found herself reliving all the emotions she had felt when she stood in her cast-ofif shoes, her cheap hand-sewn dress, waiting outside those huge wrought-iron gates of the Villa Rivera, only to be told that Michael Luciano, the boy she had loved, was dead and buried.
The guilt descended like a black cowl; her body felt as if she were drowning in a swamp of emotion. The guilt she had never allowed herself to face began to emerge, and she fought it, twisted it until it surfaced as rage. Michael Luciano, the father of her bastard child, Michael Luciano was to blame for everything. If it hadn't been for him, her husband, her sons would be alive… She hurled her glass at the wall.
"Bastard! Bastard! Bastard" she screamed. Her rage was out of control. She tore the duvet from the bed, the pillows, hurled everything she could lay hands on across the room. She swiped her perfumes and creams from the top of the dressing table, then opened her wardrobe and started dragging out her clothes, ripping at them in her frenzy, kicking the rows of shoes until exhausted, she fell to her knees. Clinging to the side of the bed, she wept uncontrollably, asking God to forgive her, repeating over and over, "It was not my fault. No one can blame me… It was not my fault…" But she knew there was no one to answer for her sins but herself.span›
Sophia returned to the confessional. "Don't you understand what I have done? Don't you understand?"
The priest quieted her, said he understood, could understand her heartache.
"No, you cannot, you can't understand."
"Well, my child, tell me what I cannot understand."
The white hand, the red-painted fingernails, again scratched at the grille.
"I wanted so much to be a part of the family. I wanted everything they had. I wanted to be-" As disturbed as she was, Sophia still held back, still could not say the name Luciano. "I wanted everything I had never had. I was so poor, Father. My mother scrubbed floors. It was all I saw for myself, scrubbing, washing other people's clothes. That was all I saw ahead of me. When I had the baby, I was sure, so sure, that they would accept me. I was sure he loved me."
"Do you know what became of the child?"
"No… I made myself forget him. I had to forget him to survive… And then, after I was married, how could I tell them? Do you think I would have been allowed to marry the son of-" Again she would not speak the name. If she explained further, he would know who she was; the deaths of the Luciano family had made headlines.
"Do you now want to find your child?"
She leaned back. She could smell the mustiness of his robes just as he could smell her distinct, heavy perfume. She answered on a long, low sigh. "Yesss… yes, that is what I want."
"Then that is what you must do. Trace this child you harbor such guilt, such deep guilt for. Your sense of betrayal is natural, you know what you have done in the past, and you know the reasons. Find him, ask his forgiveness, and God will give you the strength. Now together we will pray for his soul, pray for you, my daughter, and pray for God to forgive your sins."
Graziella looked toward her husband's study. She could hear the murmur of voices. She handed Adina her veil and black lace gloves.
"It's Signor Domino; he said it would be all right. He has three gentlemen with him, signora."
"In future, Adina, no matter who it is, no one is allowed here, especially not in my husband's study, unless I have given you authority. You may go."
She waited until Adina had returned to the kitchen before she moved closer to the study door. She paused, listening; she could hear Mario Domino speaking.
.. Panamanian companies. Listed alongside are the U.S. state bonds. We were recycling the proceeds through our bank to Switzerland-"
Graziella walked into the study, and Domino froze in mid-sentence.
"Graziella, I was not expecting you to return… I apologize for the intrusion, but… Please allow me to introduce these gentlemen. They are from America and are handling the legal side over there for Don Roberto."
Graziella did not offer her hand but remained standing at the open door. Domino made the introductions, first gesturing toward a tall, well-dressed man in a dark gray suit. His eyes were small but accentuated by heavy, horn-rimmed glasses.