Her voice cracks and I shove my hand in my pocket to stop myself from reaching out to her.
A middle-aged couple is standing at the front of the church. The man nods but the woman gives me a confused look. “Sorry, this is a private funeral.”
“Si,” I say in a thick accent. “I’m Antonio’s nephew, Enzo. My wife and I are here to pay our respects to Teresa.”
The woman’s expression melts. “Of course. Please, sit anywhere you like.”
I smile and usher January inside. It’s a big church but the pews are packed. The old girl’s getting a hell of a send-off.
“That was Zia Teresa’s daughter, Anna,” January whispers. “How did you know she knows an Antonio?”
“Because she’s Italian. Stop talking.”
“Sorry.”
We find an empty pew and sit. January’s shoulders are shaking and she touches her medallion through her dress. The curve of her breasts is visible through the thick material, and I’m torn between wanting to comfort her and copping a feel. I do neither.
Pretty soon the priest sways in, accompanied by half a dozen altar girls and boys. Altar-children. The ceremony is brief. In between the bible verses and propriety, I catch glimpses of the tough old bird who was always smacking people with spoons and smoked and loved celebrity magazines and slot machines.
January shakes like a leaf the whole mass and I manage to wrap an arm around her. It’s easier to touch her when it feels clinical.
We both stand to take the Eucharist and I feel January watching me through her veil, probably wondering if I’m a big enough asshole to blaspheme the Catholic Church on top of all the other shit I’ve done.
“Don’t worry, Tits,” I murmur. “I’m a murderering shitlord, but I’m fully fucking confirmed over here.”
“Oh my gosh,” she mumbles, turning away.
The best part of the funeral is the end where there’s a picture slideshow. You see the old girl, all smooth and pretty in her wedding dress, wearing party hats at her kid’s birthdays and dancing at their weddings. Then I see tween January, arm in arm with her Zia in some park somewhere. She looks so young and pretty, it nicks at the side of my neck like a razor.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur into the side of her veil. “Your Zia looks so proud of you.”
January lets out a sob. I hold her closer and wish I really was Enzo or whoever the fuck I’m pretending to be. That life had been different for both of us.
When the ceremony is done, I hustle January from the church. Even in a veil she’s got the body of a sex demon and I look cute as fuck in my black suit. Between the two of us, we’re attracting way too much attention.
“Sorry, can I please go to the bathroom?”
“Make it fast. And no fucking talking.”
“I won’t.”
I wander outside to wait for her. I pull off my jacket and throw it over one arm as I roll up my sleeves. I sweat like a sinner in suits, especially with the collar all done up. It’s almost enough to make me wish I was a chick. There’s a cluster of four old guys standing around an olive tree and smoking like nicotine gives life. I always enjoy watching old boys smoke but today it pisses me off. I can just imagine the first drag, the fire kick-starting my lungs.
But I won’t smoke. When I make my mind up about something, it’s done.
Seventeen years ago, I looked in Parker’s psychotic face and knew I wouldn’t sell my drug to him. Not for all the money in the world. Morelli told me not to make an enemy of such a fucked-up dude.
“You’ll create more things,” he said. “Better things. Put aside your pride and let Parker have this.”
But I didn’t want to. There were the flaws in the formula that sent Alessia to the hospital, but there was also the fact that I didn’t like Parker. Didn’t trust what he could do with a drug that turned women on.
My pride—my conscience—is what got Velvet House into this mess. I denied Parker Orchard and even Morelli couldn’t have predicted how nuclear he would go. He killed Bobby’s dad. Adri’s mom. Morelli’s dog and Alessia. He stole our adult lives and torched our futures. He took everything from all four of us and if we hadn’t run, he would have taken more.
As I watch the old men smoke, grief rises in me like a stone monolith. Ancient and unmoving and right behind it is the anger. Red hot flames, tall as a skyscraper, twisting and demanding action, violence, revenge.Anything.
My plan to fly to Vegas to kill Parker has about a million unpatchable holes. There’s every chance I’ll be killed the second I get to the hotel.
But what am I supposed to do? Let Parker live? Spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for him, praying he’s not coming for January. Whatever Morelli might think, I know better—no contract will ever stop Parker. He’ll hunt the girl until the day he dies.
