Murdered by his own son.
Most of the people in attendance are made men. A few attend with their wives by their sides. Children are strictly prohibited.
Neil is nowhere to be found, and neither is Archer. Their absences don’t put me at ease though. They’re the only two people who’ve been able to temper Christian’s rage.
I wince, the pounding in my skull that had finally started to ebb shooting back to the forefront of my mind as I think about the last time Christian lost control. If not for Neil and Archer, I’d most likely have been beaten to death.
Another reason people are staring.
My face and neck look like a Picasso painting of black and blue. That’s just the part people can see. The skin beneath my dress is worse.
Eyeing Kendra, I let my thoughts shift away from the past and back to the present. Elias’s widow stands on the other side of her husband’s grave, the picture of the perfect Italian wife in mourning. Her long raven dress is fit more for a Paris fashion show than a funeral. Her face is partially masked by a thinblack lace veil, and every now and again, she brings her white handkerchief up to wipe at her dry eyes.
Oscar-worthy performance, in my opinion.
Standing stoically next to her, his youthful face pinched in irritation, his hand around her too-thin waist, is Dante Romano, the man I grew up believing to be my uncle.
His dark eyes narrow at his brother’s casket as it’s slowly lowered into the ground. I’ve never seen him so on edge before. There’s a perplexing look behind the anger, and I can almost see the gears in his head whirling and spinning. I wonder if he knows that his brother’s killer stands among them.
Has he been in on Christian’s plan?
Plotted his kin’s demise?
I want to believe he wouldn’t. He’s the one who created the codeLa famiglia non uccide la famiglia.Family doesn’t kill family.
It’s the look of fleeting sadness that paints itself across his face as his gaze lands on Libby’s casket that puzzles me. I’ve never seen him show much affection to either of the twins. Oftentimes, he’s gone out of his way to avoid them. The twins were born a year after his wife’s death. Luisa died during the birth of their firstborn, Luca. I always attributed his violence to the sadness surrounding him, constantly being reminded of Luisa’s death.
Kenzi was named after her.
Then again, he should be deflated; she was his niece.
She was also Christian’s sister, and that hadn’t stopped him from having someone put a bullet in her head.
“The loss of life in the Ward family is a tragedy. It’s always sad when death takes one so young and another before his time is truly finished,” the priest drones on. “We hope justice finds whoever took them from us so early.”
“Could take justice right now if they knew the killer was right here,” I mutter under my breath, not expecting anyone to hear me. Christian’s sudden bruising grip on my already tender side tells me he does.
“I’d keep quiet if I were you, Avaleigh.” He leans down to whisper in my ear. “Or I’ll happily repeat our session from the other day if you want to disobey.”
Cowed by the thought of another beating, I meekly nod my head. Inside, I’m seething, my blood boiling as he keeps his grip firm, his fingers digging into my tender skin without restraint.
“…In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti,” the priest finishes, his free hand making the sign of the cross above each casket as they finish being lowered into their final resting places. A whisper ofamensrises among the attendees, including my own. Pressure builds behind my eyes, tears threatening to fracture like fragile ornamental glass, shattering into millions of tiny pieces. But the last thing I want to do is cry in front of these people, the ones who have done nothing but lie and beat me down.
“Let’s go,” Christian huffs impatiently as he leads me from the graveside. I don’t push him; he’s already on edge at having been forced to attend the funeral of the people he’s murdered in cold blood. Instead, I follow him obediently, weaving through the small crowd until he stops abruptly at the sound of someone calling his name.
Cursing, he turns to face his uncle, who’s silently approached us, leaving Kendra to mingle with the other wives.
“Dante.” Christian’s tone is informal, if not a bit biting, and I see his uncle’s eyes narrow at the informality. No one speaks to the Don that way. Not even family. “What can I do for you?”
Dante’s gaze momentarily shifts to me, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight that is my face, before pullingback to Christian. “A few of the men want to talk to you about our next step.”
Christian snorts derisively. “I don’t need to discuss anything with them.” His upper lip twists in disgust at the thought. That’s the problem with Christian, he doesn’t play well with others, especially those he thinks are beneath him. He’s entitled. A trait Elias unfortunately encouraged through the years. “My men’s job is to follow my orders. Not question them or discuss them. That’s it.”
“They aren’t your men, Christian,” Dante reminds him with a snarl. “They’re my men, and if you don’t discuss with them our next steps, they won’t be following your orders much longer. Understood?”
His nephew’s shoulders stiffen at the obvious rebuke. I listen carefully; my eyes trained on the ground as I attempt to make myself appear small. Christian isn’t much different from his father when it comes to his views on women, or me. He either thinks I’m too dumb to comprehend the conversations, or his pride won’t allow him to believe I’d ever get away and use that knowledge. The latter thinking is what got Elias into trouble in the first place.
Never underestimate a woman scorned.
