ROSALIE
Blood, sweat, and tears. That was the currency for men like those in my family. Every calloused hand held the story of a struggle. It was etched into the lines on their faces and in the dried blood beneath their nails, paired with a devilish but not quite sinful smile.
Morals were a gray area, and pride wasn’t a word I associated with them. It was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Which was exactly why I was standing shivering in the drizzle, with the damp air clinging to my freshly dry-cleaned dress.
Cillian’s funeral was being held at a small church. It was more than my uncle deserved, though the service still felt more like an afterthought than a way for people to grieve. This was made obvious by the lack of mourners and the cold stares of the ones who did show up. I vaguely recognized a few of them from my childhood. Their expressions were bored, just as I remembered.
The entire graveyard was overgrown with weeds and surrounded by a rusty iron fence. The headstones were like neglected teeth, some chipped, some stained, a few tilted at crooked angles.
My heels disappeared into the mud with a squelch—a sound that perfectly matched the approaching storm clouds. The air was wet, muggy, and the brewing storm was waiting for no one. I felt a drop of rain splash against my cheek. I didn’t bother wiping it off.
I pressed myself against the cold, damp stone railing. My gaze darted nervously across the crowd. Then a flash of movement snagged my attention. It was Marco, half-hidden by a group of men. He towered over all of them, well over 6’2”, with broad shoulders that strained against the back of his tailored navy-blue suit. He didn’t come by often—once, maybe twice a year, if you were lucky.
He was one of my father’s men, a lawyer specializing in high-profile cases, which was just a fancy way of saying he defended people with more money than morals.
Of course one of his clients happened to be my dear old dad.
Marco was in his thirties, as mature and corrupt as they come. He had dark hair, stubble, and eyes that seemed guarded. He hardly ever said a word. The man was almost deadly silent. He wouldn’t be caught dead divulging personal details. Getting information out of him was like waiting for the sky to turn green.
His gaze, usually sharp and focused, drifted somewhere off into the distance. I followed his line of sight, which landed on Valentina—the woman he’d made a widow, according to my sister.
A muscle clenched in his jaw briefly. It was the only sign of emotion I’d ever seen him show. Then, as if sensing my scrutiny, his gaze met mine across the graveyard.
He excused himself from the group with a curt nod.
Oh. He was coming over here.
When he finally reached me, he stopped just a breath away. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in the most deep, monotone voice I’d ever heard. It was one accustomed to giving orders, not offering condolences.
“Are you?” I asked. My voice snagged in my throat. Daisy’s accusation echoed in my head, a seed of doubt blooming into a thorny vine. “They say you’re the one who did it.”
“They say a lot of things,” he countered, narrowing his eyes. “Who ‘they’ are is the more pertinent question, yeah?”
Classic lawyer response.He was a viper in anArmanisuit; a predator who thrived in the bloodstained waters of the courtroom. He wouldn’t ever admit it. Marco would never put himself in a jeopardizing position.
“What makes you think I’d tell you my secrets?”
A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “You’d tell me them for the same reason you’d bother telling me you have any to begin with.”
Somehow, he’d managed to turn it onto me. I tried to hide my nerves, but it was impossible not to be intimidated by him. His eyes were cold,calculating.
“Are you staying here in New York?” I asked, desperate to change the topic.
He shook his head. “New Orleans.”
“What’s in New Orleans?” I asked, curious. The humid city felt worlds away from New York.
He stood by my side, refusing to keep his back to the crowd, unguarded. “Work.”
“What kind of work?” I pressed.
He studied me for a long moment. “The kind that doesn’t concern you.”
“Why are you here then?”
“Unfinished business,” he answered. His gaze darted toward the crowd. “Loose ends to tie up.”
