Quickly, the Family assembled an enforcement detail under La Giustizia, led by my mother, Gianna Ferraro.
When my mother arrived at the scene, she looked upset. Her crew, aware she had taken a personal day, murmured apologies. "Donna Ferraro, we know you were off for your daughter's feast day. But this one landed on our territory. If we don't handle it before the Feds catch wind, the Commission will have questions. You're the best we've got."
Mom's expression softened slightly, but she didn't clarify that she had actually been at her niece Serafina Marchetti's ceremony, not her daughter's. She treated Serafina as her own.
Despite her years running La Giustizia, Mom appeared pale and gravely serious at the scene. Two soldiers flanked the perimeter. No one spoke above a murmur.
"Looks like she went through hell before she died," Mom muttered, examining the body's wounds.
Her face twisted in anger as she spat out, "Asshole. So damn cruel."