Hell.
After covering what felt like the longest aisle in existence, Mac finally reached the front of the church. Glancing down, she stared at the shiny, black urn placed on top of a wooden pedestal. Her stomach clenched at the thought of its contents.
Beside the pedestal, an enlarged picture was carefully displayed on an intricate, metal easel. The cold eyes staring back at her from the canvas were as evil in print as they’d been in life.
Outwardly, no one looking at her would be able to tell, but inside…inside, she felt like she might break apart.
Murmurs and soft musings surrounded her as guests commented on how much the ‘poor man’ would be missed. Mac resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“Thank you for coming.”
The voice from Mac’s nightmares reached her ears as she looked down at the outstretched hand. With utter clarity, she remembered the violence that hand was capable of. What that hand had done to her.
Sliding her palm against his, Mac swallowed down bile and formed hers into a firm grip. “My condolences on your loss,” she offered softly as she brought her gaze to his.
Recognition flared to life the instant their eyes met, but Luca Marino was good.
He didn’t gasp or glare. There was no dramatic scene where he threw her ass out.
In fact, the large man’s only reaction was to gently shake Mac’s hand and give her a slight nod.
“Thank you.”
To those watching, she was simply another mourner among the masses. Luca knew better. It was there, in the way his grip tightened slightly. In the set of black pupils dilating with sudden recall, followed by what looked a hell of a lot like arousal.
Asshole.
Mac moved on, following those who had gone before her through the church’s enormous wooden doors. Once outside, she waited until she was away from the crowd before drawing in several deep, nearly gasping breaths.
Running a shaky hand through her long, blonde hair, she tried to stifle the nauseating memories seeing Luca again had brought forth. It pissed her off that, after all she’d been through and done in her life, this one man could still affect her like this.
Mac remembered the black car parked across the street. She couldn’t see through the tinted windows but knew the man behind the wheel was watching her.
On shaky legs, she made her way down the sidewalk to the car she’d rented for the trip. She’d only just made it to the vehicle when a voice from behind her called out.
“Miss Moretti!”
God, I hate that name.
Mac looked over her shoulder to see the one friendly face she remembered from her time here. Despite knowing what the man did for a living, she couldn’t help but smile.
The sixty-year-old, round-faced attorney had been one bright spot in that period of her life.
With his bald head—minus the two tiny puffs of silver hair on the sides—and kind smile, Henry Doyle had quickly stepped in to an almost grandfatherly-like role after her parents’ death.
“Hello, Henry.”
“Abigail.” The man’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas. “I thought that was you.” He pulled her into a big bear hug, one she reciprocated in kind. “Let me look at you.”
Feeling as though she’d been transported back into her teenage self, Henry’s hands remained on her shoulders while he gave her an assessing glance. “My goodness, you’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman. Not that I had any doubts.” His hands fell to his sides, but he continued grinning from ear to ear.
“And you look exactly as I remember.”
When Henry would come by the house to do business or have brunch, the sweet man always made time to speak to her. He treated her like a person. Like someone who mattered.
Mac had clung to that like a lifeline.
The slight belly he’d developed since she’d last seen him bounced beneath his dress shirt. “I think maybe your eyesight has diminished over the years.”
