“Loose ends like Cillian?” I glanced down at my muddy shoes. The question had tumbled out before I could stop it.
Before he could give me an answer, the church bell clanged out an off-key toll. The hearse rolled into view, its brakes screeching. It felt wrong, terribly wrong, to be standing beside this man, the murderer, at the funeral.
Marco lifted a hand, his touch sending a jerk through me as he guided me toward the black carriage. There was barely a gap between us.
A few dozen people gathered outside with umbrellas and somber expressions. Obligatory attendees, like a lot of them.
Pallbearers—six men who looked like they’d done this a million times too many—lumbered out of the hearse carrying an oak coffin. It was polished—the kind of casket reserved for saints and Nobel laureates, not a man whose greatest heist involved a particularly large shipment of something powdery. The flowers on top, Momma’s collection of lilies and carnations, felt like a joke. No one felt bad. The man had it coming.
Uncle Cillian had been after my father’s rule for a while, circling him like an unhinged vulture for years. Their rivalry stretched back to childhood, a feud that had somehow managed to involve my mother (a whole other story).
The priest droned on about the sanctity of life and the importance of good deeds, but his words were lost on me. My focus was on Aunt Rita—a woman hidden in a black veil, standing far away beneath a single tree. Like me, she wasn’t exactly mourning my uncle’s death. Her motives for attending were nearly as transparent as the cheap diamonds she wore.
The inheritance, of course, and the lack of her own.
She wouldn’t get a dime—not since Cillian was a married man. Married to Valentina, no less. It was a marriage of convenience for money on her part, and a power play on his. Valentina would inherit everything—eventually. With Cillianhaving held a high position, the money would first go to my father.
I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d made her sign a prenup. Knowing Valentina, I doubted it. The only reason she’d married Uncle Cillian in the first place was for his money. The entire situation reeked of opportunism, but Valentina deserved her payday.
If she knew what was good for her, she’d pack her bags, grab the dough, and hightail it out of here, leaving this dysfunctional family of blood and lies behind.
Once the priest was done and the fake tears had been shed, everyone slowly broke off into small clusters of hushed conversations.
There, approaching from the side of the building, was a man named Remy. He was the lawyer who was always around, handling my father’s legal affairs day in and day out. If things ever got really complicated, that was when Marco would step in, but only when a case demanded more than even Remy could handle. Marco was better—and almost always more expensive. That was probably why he was hardly around.
Remy was from New Orleans, just like Marco. He’d grown up in Faubourg Marigny, surrounded by law his entire life. His grandfather was a legendary defense attorney who’d taught him the ropes. After graduating top of his class at Stanford, Remy had come back to take over the family firm.
Remy arrived, a polite smile gracing his features. I’d never officially met him before, only heard of him.
“Marco,” he greeted, “who’s this?”
Oh, he was charming.
I held out my hand. “Rose,” I said, introducing myself before Marco even had the chance.
“Remy,” he said, extending his hand toward mine. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Pleasure is all mine. I heard about the case you and your grandfather worked on before he retired. That man had been locked up for eight years before you guys helped him.”
Remy smiled. “Practice makes perfect, I suppose. It wouldn’t have been possible if Marco hadn’t introduced us. He knew quite a few people in the service who got tied up in the wrong things.”
Service? Like, the military?The realization slammed into me. It wasn’t just Marco’s legal background that explained his composure; this explained everything—his unflinching stare, his controlled demeanor, his cryptic comment about patience.
Based on his appearance, it didn’t exactly shock me, but the fact I hadn’t known showed just how secretive the man really was.
“The service, huh?” I ventured. “Army, Navy, Marines ...?”
“Classified,” Marco replied firmly.
I blinked. I didn’t think I was supposed to know about the time he’d served. “I see,” I said. He wouldn’t elaborate. Remy, too, seemed caught off-guard by Marco’s abruptness. I glanced at Marco, who still hadn’t looked away, his jaw tight as ever. “And you and Marco know each other well?”
“Professionally, yes.” Remy’s smile was polite, almost amused, as if he was used to this line of questioning. “Though, truth be told, Marco’s expertise is a bit ... beyond my usual purview.”
“Because he’s willing to do what others won’t?” I ventured, lowering my voice. Marco knew what I really meant.
Remy gave a measured nod. “One way to put it.” His gaze shifted to Marco. “But Marco’s ... selective in his cases. He’s usually called in when there are no options left.”
“Which case?” I asked.
