Remy cleared his throat. “Ricky. He’s gotten the Feds involved.”
“And that’s where the two of you step in?”
“Marco will handle the Feds. Looks like I’ll be handling the estate for Mrs. Cillian, seeing as ... well, the circumstances have changed.”
Then Marco stepped closer, his voice dropping low enough that only we could hear. “Best not waste time, Remy. Valentina needs the details of her inheritance, and I suspect you don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Remy was just about to say his goodbyes when he lifted his attention to something behind me. I turned to find a tall shadow hovering over me.
It was ... Max?Strange ...I thought I killed that man a few weeks ago.
Bummer.
I suppose it was a good thing I was hearing from him. After all, it meant I hadn’t killed the poor guy. There wasn’t a pattern, which was a relief. I guess itwasin my head—unless the world’s crankiest man was immune to the curse. That would be devastating.
“Ho-ly shit,” Remy said. “Max R?—”
“Really great to see you,” Max interrupted quickly. He reached over me, extending his hand for Remy to shake.
His possessiveness still knew no bounds, it seemed.
“How funny, seeing you here of all places.”
Why is it funny?
Remy looked at him strangely, and Marco shook his head slowly, his eyes closed in disappointment. A muscle ticked in Marco’s jaw. He straightened his back and shot Remy a narrowed look.
“We have a meeting to go to,” Marco demanded, as if he were eager to leave the conversation.
“Right, Remy,” Max drawled. “Good seeing you.”
Both Marco and Remy stalked off, leaving me to deal with Max alone.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“What?” He blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Haven’t you met him before? Why is it strange you’re here?”
Max shrugged. “Probably because funerals aren’t my thing.”
“Really?” I laughed, the sound shocking him. “With the body count you rack up, I figured attending funerals was practically in the job description.” I leaned in a little closer. “Though maybe not as a mourner.”
He stayed silent, unamused.
“Don’t tell me the Reaper himself gets sentimental at funerals,” I tried to joke.
“The Reaper doesn’t attend funerals. He just does his job.”
Marco did, I thought to myself, my gaze falling to the ground innocently. On the way back up, I noticed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter tucked into the pocket of Max’s shirt. Then I noticed the smell. I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t noticed it before—I always did.
“Since when did you smoke?” I gave him a puzzled look.
“Since you got on my last nerve,” he replied, the corner of his lip twisted upward slightly.
“That’s a horrible addiction,” I scolded.
“It’s definitely not the worst one I have, Rosalie.”
