I resist the urge to fidget with the too-tight sleeves of my dress, the fabric stretching uncomfortably across my body.
Mom would have known how to fix it. Mom would have known a lot of things.
Outside, Cleveland wears its typical late-winter gray, the sky hanging low like a lid on a pot about to boil over. Twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit and spitting tiny ice crystals that aren’t quite snow. The weather matches the hollow ache behind my ribs—cold, unforgiving, and relentlessly present.
People mill about in the viewing room, their voices hushed as if volume might disturb the dead. I feel their glances sliding over me before moving on to Sabrina.
My sister stands across the room, her slender figure draped elegantly in a designer black dress that hugs her perfect curves. Her hair falls in soft waves around her tear-streaked face, her eyes bright with grief that seems to turn on and off like a faucet.
I tug at my own dress again, the fabric straining across my hips. The last time I wore this was at a distant relative’s wedding three years ago, and it wasn’t comfortable then. Now it digs into my flesh, a constant reminder of how my body takes up more space than I want it to.
“You couldn’t have found something that actually fits?” Sabrina materializes beside me, her voice low and sweet to anyone who might overhear, but I catch the venom underneath. “You look like you’re about to burst at the seams. It’s embarrassing, Alina.”
I swallow the familiar hurt, tasting it like pennies on my tongue. “There wasn’t time to shop.”
“There’s always time if you make it a priority.” She reaches out to adjust my collar, a gesture that looks like sisterly care but feels like another criticism. Her fingers are cold against my neck. “At least try to look presentable, won’t you? People are watching, and I don’t want them talking about my fat sister who can barely find clothes that fit. That dress has to be a cry for help. God, this is Mom’s funeral.”
I roll my eyes, determined not to show her how much her cruel words are getting to me. Before I can respond, the room shifts. Acollective intake of breath, a subtle turning of heads. The Russos have arrived. Christ, every single one of them has shown up for Mom.
They enter as a unit, moving with the synchronized grace of predators. Remus leads, tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair slicked back. His sharp gaze scans the room with casual authority.
Behind him comes Lorenzo with his arm around his wife, Piper. Matteo follows; he keeps a proprietary hand on the small of Raven’s back. She’s visibly pregnant, her belly straining the black material of her dress, but she moves with the same dangerous grace as the rest of them. Her pink hair seems almost defiant against the funeral’s somber palette.
Last but definitely not least is Raffaele. My breath catches when our gazes meet. His sage green eyes are intense, making it feel like he’s seeing beneath flesh, muscles, sinew and into my very soul.
Even if the rumors of Little Italy didn’t run aplenty with the infamous Russo family, I’d recognize each one of the cousins. Mostly by their bakery orders. They’re by no means regulars; more like, come in once or twice every other month. But it was always a big deal to Mom.
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding when his perfect teeth bite down on his bottom lip. Two seconds later, he lets go of the flesh, his stubbled jaw set in a hard line. Is he… displeased with what he’s seeing? Have I somehow annoyed him?
Flustered, I tear my eyes away from his and look along the line of them. All the Russo men are gorgeous in the way apex predators are beautiful—you admire them even as your instincts scream danger.
The family takes seats near the back, commanding the space without saying a word. The Russos attend all significantcommunity funerals, I know. It’s a way to show respect and remind us all whose world we live in.
The service begins. I stare at the polished wood of Mom’s casket; the reality of it is still impossible to grasp.
It’s been a week since the illness finally took her, after months of watching her body betray her in slow, cruel increments. Her muscles failing one by one and her breath became something we had to measure.
Beside me, Sabrina produces perfect, photogenic tears that never quite smudge her makeup. She leans heavily on Maxwell, her boyfriend, who keeps shooting glances my way that make my skin crawl.
He looks respectable enough. Short blond hair, trimmed beard, gray eyes that probably charm most people. But there’s something in the way he watches me that reminds me of someone testing the lock on a door they plan to break into later.
When it’s time for the eulogy, Sabrina rises, a vision of elegant grief. Her voice breaks at all the right moments. She speaks of our mom’s strength, her kindness, her generosity—all true things that somehow sound hollow in Sabrina’s practiced delivery.
I sit with my hands clenched in my lap, knuckles white, swallowing back the raw, messy grief that wouldn’t look nearly as pretty.
After the service, people begin to move around again, offering condolences, exchanging quiet words. I stand by the guest book, thanking people mechanically when Raven approaches.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Alina,” she says, direct and without the awkward platitudes others have been offering. “Sophia was good people. I… if you need anything, text me, okay?”
Raven visits the bakery almost daily, and more often than not, she hangs around a bit to chit-chat. So I guess she’s become an…acquaintance of sorts. Plus, last July she hired me to make her dad’s birthday cake. That counts for something, right?
“Thank you,” I manage, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. “She always looked forward to your visits.”
“Those cinnamon rolls were worth getting up at six for.” Raven’s hand rests on her rounded belly. “These two already seem to like them too. They start kicking the minute I walk into the bakery.”
Sabrina appears suddenly, her practiced smile firmly in place. “Raven, it’s been ages. You look absolutely radiant.” She reaches toward Raven’s stomach. “May I?”
Raven steps back, her expression cooling. “No.” Just that, nothing else. She turns back to me. “When are you reopening the bakery?”
