“Sweet Mother Mary, that’s good,” I groan, taking another spoonful of the chowder.
“Right?” Aria says happily.
And then Zed has to ruin the moment, the bawbag. “We must talk about Uncle William’s funeral. This should be a major event, as befitting the King status.”
“He wasn’t a King,” Elana says crossly, “he’s Mother’s brother and he was a creep.”
“Granted,” Aria says, “but Z’s right. Business associates from all over the globe will show up for this, just to see and be seen, if nothing else.”
Waiting until the last of the serving staff has left the room, I say, “There’s another good reason to make this a production.”
“Oh?” Zed asks, watching me with a little frown.
“Whoever tried to break in here was looking for something. The funeral will look like a grand opportunity to make a second attempt. We’ll have heavy security here to trap the feckin’ rats when they try it again.”
“We don’t have enough men with that kind of security status to guard the funeral and the estate,” he protests.
“We do if your security people are at the funeral, and my men are here. Anyone watching will see your people there and think the house is wide open with just a skeleton staff.”
“This feels like you’re taking over,” Elana speaks up. “You may be Aria’s husband, but this isn’t your family. It’s ours.”
“Elana!” Aria says warningly, but I shake my head.
“Aye,” I say mildly, “I have no interest in inserting myself into your syndicate. Nor does my family. But we are allied now. As you need assistance now, we might need it at another time, and you’ll send manpower to help us then. It’s what allies do.”
“Father always said to trust no one,” Zed frets.
“True,” Aria says soothingly, “but maybe it’s time to try a new business model.”
“That’s my cue to bring out dessert,” Marcus says, “you’re all getting really gloomy.”
Chapter Twenty-One
In which we endure Uncle Bastard’s “Celebration of Life.”
Aria…
One week later…
“You’re really calling this acelebration of lifefor Uncle Bastard?”
Elana picks up the funeral program with her thumb and forefinger, nose wrinkled as if she’s holding a dirty diaper.
“Well, I wanted to call it ‘Good fucking riddance, you evil bastard, now rot in hell,’ but I couldn’t fit it all in the title,” I say, typing out a response to the funeral director’s email.
“What kind of turnout do you think we’re dealing with here?”
“Big,” I groan, “not because they respected the old creep, but because he was considered the head of the syndicate for three months.”
“He managed to do a hell of a lot of damage in ninety days,” she says sourly.
“You have no idea,” I stretch my arms over my head. The last week has been nothing but putting out fires and speaking with our most important clients, assuring them that it was business as usual for the King Syndicate. Zed took on the burden of calling the Old Guard, the traditional crime families that think a female isn’t capable of understanding business, as if my vagina was a barrier to coherent thought.
Thank god, even in the crime world there was change happening, with more women in leadership positions. Of course, the female heads of the crime families usually clawed their way into the position by murdering their fathers or husbands and by being even more vicious and terrifying than the men.
“The turnout will be huge,” I say, “and that’s good. We want everyone to see us as a united front and that Zed’s going to be a strong leader like Dad was.”
“How many people does Lachlan have guarding the estate?”
