Damien leads me out to his car, performing one final sweep of the house before he joins me, checking my seatbelt is done up tight.
“If you don’t mind a dead body in the basement, we can stay at my place for now.” His casual voice makes the macabre suggestion sound palatable.
“Won’t it look suspicious? Both of our parents… you know.”
“Bryan isn’t your parent, and you told me his guardianship was unofficial. Nobody will connect the dots, and even if they do trace him back to our relationship, my dad’s death will fall under misadventure, not overdose.”
“And what if you’re wrong?”
His smile gleams. “Then I have a very good team of lawyers. Don’t waste your time worrying about something that might never happen. Enjoy what’s in front of you instead.”
The engine purrs into life, and Damien passes the corsage box back to me, the gift hidden under the closed lid.
“Thank you,” I say.
And I mean it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
DAMIEN
The priest’svoice is a dry rasp. His words sound appropriately respectful for a funeral, but they have nothing in common with the man in the coffin. Integrity and generosity aren’t virtues my father ever possessed.
Once the final blessing is read, the small crowd of mourners shift uncomfortably. I scoop up a handful of dirt, and it falls on the casket lid with a soft, unsatisfying thump.
Ophelia bends beside me and takes a smaller handful, sprinkling it while the wind cuts through my coat. She falls back next to me with a shiver, and I drape it across her shoulders, not caring whether I’m warm.
“Go wait in the car,” I say, voice pitched low, so she’s the only one who can hear it. “You’re freezing, and this lot will take their time.”
She purses her lips, readying a protest, but I shake my head.
“Please. I need to handle this alone.”
She hesitates a moment, then nods, pressing a kiss against my cheek before she walks away. The imprint stays with me asI greet the first in line. A business associate of my father’s—like almost everyone here—with a clammy handshake and bad breath behind the sharp scent of mint.
“He was a great man, Damien. A real loss.”
I nod, my face showing the appropriate solemnity while I count the mourners in line. Twenty-six handshakes till freedom.
Another woman, a distant cousin or maybe an old neighbour, clutches my arm and tells me how much I resemble him.
The condolences wash over me, no staying power. Empty words from people who either feared him or were desperate for a piece of what he had.
Vincent Impaglia holds back until the crowd thins; eyes narrowed as he waits for his moment. He nods at two men near his car, and they stand at attention. I can feel a target growing on my back.
“Damien.” His grip is firmer than the mourners who came before, far more confident. “A difficult day. Alexander was a formidable man, and the business world will feel his absence.”
“I’m sure it will.”
I see flashes of Chelsea in the way his gaze lingers on me, assessing, probing for weakness. My memory plays back the cool edge of a knife blade against my neck.
“This isn’t the time, but we should get into a room together soon. Aligning our companies is what your father wanted.”
What my father wanted was to acquire Impaglia Industries under the guise of a billion-dollar merger and spit out the bones.
Presumably, Vincent now envisions doing the same to me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so eager after stonewalling my father to the point he couldn’t even get a meeting.
“No thanks,” I say, holding his gaze level. “My future wife wouldn’t like that at all.”
