By: Theresa Rizzo
“Trouble?” the voice in his ear asked.
The man scrutinized the small cemetery with an experienced eye. Flowers, in varying degrees of decomposition, huddled next to weathered gravestones like scented guardians, death's own companions. A nondescript glass vase holding two-dozen cream-colored roses graced the base of the fresh grave, just as the Don had ordered. Elegant, but not too conspicuous. A tasteful tribute to an old friend. Edges of the royal blue canvas canopy sheltering the fresh grave fluttered in the breeze, emitting the occasional snap with a sudden gust. Scanning the manicured grounds, his gaze skimmed rows of carved headstones standing like sentinel chess pieces interrupted only by the occasional wide trunk of decades-old trees, and surrounded by a token chain-link fence that any curious eight-year-old child could easily scale. Cars lined the streets nearby, along with several large white vans bearing television logos claiming prime spots.
No lurking men, no representative apparent, nothing suspicious. He moved his head slightly in a negative gesture, murmuring, “Clear.”
Hands clasped together, he subtly massaged his tingling hand—the remnant of an old injury poorly healed. At barely fifty, he was far too young to be troubled by arthritis--arthritis was an old man's disease. So he ignored his aching hand, with his only concession being an almost unconscious gentle kneading of the painful digits. The others assumed the habit was born of boredom; he let them think that. Better not to have a known weakness.
“Here they come,” the voice announced. A gleaming black hearse pulled through the cemetery gates, crunching loudly on the gravel road. As the hearse passed, he bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, and said a quick prayer appealing to the Virgin Mary to have mercy on the deceased's soul. From behind dark sunglasses, he located the car with tinted windows and nodded. Two men, impeccably dressed in dark suits, left the back seat. At his signal, they split up, mingling among the mourners, and discretely stood guard.
Through the short ceremony, he maintained his vantage point at the back beneath a huge maple, waiting. Watching. Anticipating trouble was his job; so far, things looked quiet. Far from being reassuring, that sharpened his concern, for that was often how it was before the enemy struck. Although the city had posted a few policemen for crowd control, he knew them unprepared for a real volatile situation. They didn't understand. They were book-learned, not bred protectors. Crowd control was all they were good for, and they seemed to be having difficulty even with that. He smirked as an officer tried to back a particularly aggressive television crew away from the mourners.
Returning to business, he made eye contact with each colleague before seeking out his charge's slim form. Gianna Donnatelli stood, head bowed, with one bare hand lovingly caressing the lustrous wood coffin. A classic Italian beauty, Gianna wore her shoulder-length dark hair pulled away from her face with a large tortoiseshell clip, and she shielded her chocolate brown eyes with oversized sunglasses. No black hat. No mourning veil. Interesting, he thought, how she courageously bared her face to the world yet secreted her eyes, the window to her soul. Though her coloring blatantly announced her Italian heritage, Gianna's petite stature and delicate features were a legacy from her maternal Irish grandmother. The combination resulted in a striking woman, with an equally alluring personality that men instinctively wanted to love and protect. Relatives and close friends, whose faces--if not names--he'd memorized, pressed close, unwittingly shielding her from potential danger. Good.
The crowd was impressive. Many people had turned out to pay their last respects to her father. He must have been well loved and honored because mourners often attended masses, then bypassed the graveside ceremony. Not today. Cars with little black funeral flags surrounded the cemetery, choking the local traffic as hundreds of people swarmed the little corner graveyard.
He watched Gianna with an intensity born of years of dedication, diverting his attention only momentarily to scan the crowd around her, or to relocate his men drifting through the throng and guarding the perimeter. His thumb moved across the palm of his left hand with increasing force as he chafed at his restrictions. His job would have been much easier had he been allowed to stand beside her, to protect her with his own body should the need arise, but the Don had been clear on that point; they were to remain inconspicuous. Throughout the short graveside ceremony, he never left his post under the large maple tree away from the crowd. Although unaware of his scrutiny, the young woman was his first priority—his only priority. This new role of invisible guardian angel was unfamiliar to him; some might say that he was better suited as Azrael, the angel of death.
The priest was winding down when Gianna broke away from the coffin. With a sob, she pressed a fist to her mouth and pushed her way through the mourners. People followed, offering sympathy, but she ignored them and picked up her pace, sprinting the last several yards to the waiting limo. A nearby police officer opened the car door for her, and then headed off the nearest reporter attempting to capitalize on the emotions clearly displayed on the distraught young woman's face. Soon the other relatives joined Gianna, and the limo slowly pulled away from the curb.
“Ready?” the voice in his ear asked.
With one last look around, he stepped away from huge tree trunk and nodded. She was safe.
For now.
* * *
©2004 Theresa Rizzo. All Rights Reserved.