3
Two days later…
Mac sat in the very back row of the familiar Catholic church located in downtown Jersey City. She listened attentively as the priest’s echoing lies filled the intricately arched space above the crowded pews.
When she first met Father Medina years before, he’d seemed like a nice, caring man. Living proof that looks could be deceiving.
There was no way the holy man believed the crap he was spewing. He’d been around far too long and had heard way too many confessions to think for a second the man lying in the coffin was anything but a cold-hearted bastard. Still, Medina continued on with his fraudulent ramblings.
According to the good Father, not only was Anthony Moretti a wonderful, caring human being, he’d also been an upstanding citizen with a deeply seeded love for his city.
I think I’m going to be sick.
For the next several minutes, the congregation heard wonderful stories of Moretti’s kindness, followed by a list of the deceased man’s selfless acts of community service.
Mac’s stomach lurched with each word crossing the priest’s lips, because she knew the truth.
Tony Moretti had been a cold, calculating, manipulative bastard willing to lie, cheat, or kill to get what he wanted.
Mac would know. She shared his blood, after all.
So far, no one had recognized her, but they would. She was counting on it. Wearing a dress full of color and life, there was no way she wouldn’t stand out amongst the enormous sea of black.
As the misguided priest continued on, Mac shifted her body against the uncomfortable wooden pew. Muscles that had been gloriously used two nights before still pulled, conjuring up a picture of her and Coop, together in her bed.
In the image forever locked inside her memory, Coop was on top of her. Thrusting himself in and out of her greedy core as he filled her in the most exquisite way.
Another picture followed. One where Coop’s head was between her thighs, his fingers and tongue moving in ways she’d never imagined—
Someone in the pew across from her coughed, ripping the erotic image from her mind. Mac shifted in the seat again, crossing her legs to ease the sudden ache there.
She mentally cursed herself, locking those and every other memory from that night away. This wasn’t the time or place for any of that.
She had to stay focused while she was here. Coop’s life depended on it.
After a few more songs and prayers—all futile, since Moretti’s soul was damned a long time ago—Father Medina invited any relatives or close friends to the front for a final viewing of sorts.
Mac’s heart beat a little stronger.
Showtime.
She stood. Making her way down the church’s long aisle, the whispers following her nearly made her smile. Mac knew people were staring, probably wondering who she was and why she was here. Why she’d wear such a vibrant dress to such a somber occasion.
The better to see me, my dears.
The rumor mill would no doubt be winding up before long, but she didn’t care about any of that. There was only one man who needed to see her. One Mac hated with every fiber of her being.
Luca Marino, Moretti’s most trusted business associate, dutifully stood at his rightful place near the casket. He wore a mournful expression as he shook hands with those passing by to pay their respects.
The closer Mac got, the more forceful her pulse began to beat. With every fiber of her being, she wanted to see the bastard suffer and die, but she couldn’t kill him.
Not yet.
Though she hid it well, Mac’s insides were quivering with both fear and anger. Fear from the haunting memories seeing Luca created. Anger for allowing him to have even an ounce of power over her, after all these years.
Not for long, though.
No, by the time she was finished, Luca Marino would be joining his predecessor in the only place they both truly belonged.
