8. Olivia
OLIVIA
I turn to him,taking in the seriousness of his expression.
“You’re going to follow me down the hall with this gurney of yours,” he states simply. “That’s how you got me in the cremator, right?”
I shake my head, the slow movement denying his request, not his question.
Because he’s right. After he crumpled into a pile of muscled limbs on the floor, I rushed through the building to retrieve the gurney so I could transport his heavy weight. I’d flipped him onto it like a sack of potatoes, the adrenaline in my veins potent enough to give me superpowers. But now all that energy is gone.
I’m exhausted. Defeated. On the brink of collapse.
“I’m not going to help you.” I hold my chin high through the fear.
He gives a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, you are.” He pivots the gun on the gurney, the barrel pointing in my direction.
My pulse stutters. “You said you were no threat to me.”
“I said you wouldn’t die as long as you followed instructions, my pretty little pyro.”
Stop calling me that.
Please stop calling me that.
I shake my head. “I won’t do it.”
“You sure?” He raises the gun, the barrel creeping toward my face until the cold metal brushes my cheek, gently directing my loose hair behind my ear.
I stand frozen. “You can’t make me.”
Am I willing to die for my morals? No. Will I put up a heroic fight until I’m forced to concede? God, I hope so.
He drags the gun along my jaw. Under my chin. He adds pressure until I raise my face flush with his. “We both know you’ll do exactly as I ask.”
Anger builds inside me. Disgust, rage, and ferocity, too. “I trusted you.”
We both know what I’m talking about.
The trust I gave him with my body. With my vulnerability.
“I know.” His dark eyes hold my gaze. “But we all make mistakes. Don’t make another one by defying me.” He juts his chin toward the hall. “Lead the way.”
“No.” I step back. Square my shoulders. “How did you get a key? Did you bribe Hugo? Do you know I fired him today because the retort was warm when staff arrived this morning?”
“That’s a tough break for the poor guy. But no, he has nothing to do with this. You need to think a little closer to home.”
Allison?
Ivy?
I shake my head. They wouldn’t give away a key. Not for legitimate reasons, let alone criminal ones… would they?
Remy sighs, returning the gun to the gurney, the barrel still aimed in my direction. “It started the night we met, Ollie. It wasn’t fate that brought us together. It was the meeting your father had scheduled with my brother, Salvatore.”
Icy dread enters my veins.
I keep shaking my head, denying the connection, refuting the implication.
“They formed a partnership of sorts,” he continues. “One that’s been smooth sailing until now.”
My head works on a swivel. Back and forth. Back and forth. “You’re a liar. My father would never?—”
“Your father needs the money, and we pay him generously.”
No. Times were tough after my mother died. Not that Dad admitted to anything out loud, but I’d seen the medical bills scattered across his desk. I’d noticed how he cut back on expenses. How he scrimped and saved for years while he put me through my degree in mortuary science until the dust seemed to settle. Or, more accurately, until a pandemic made our family business a far more prosperous career choice.
We don’t need the money.
We might not be filthy rich like the murderer before me, but we’re comfortable. We’ve had the means to invest back into the business. Dad purchased the brand new hundred-thousand-dollar retort last year, for heaven’s sake.
“If my father is involved it’s because you blackmailed him.” I stand tall. “You’re threatening him.”
“Did he look threatened that night?” Remy raises a brow. “When you were at the bar, batting your lashes at me, were you concerned for his safety? Or were you comfortable enough to leave him to his conversation while you fucked around with a stranger?”
My throat burns. My cheeks, too. “He doesn’t need the money.”
“Parents have secrets, Ollie. Believe me, I learned that lesson the hard way.”
“He doesn’t need the money,” I repeat, almost shouting my denial. “He wouldn’t do this.”
“He has for six months.” He taps the gurney with the hilt of his weapon. “Now tell me how to get this thing moving. My men usually dump the bodies straight into the retort.”
He attempts to push the heavy weight, the brakes making it impossible.
He glances beneath the metal tray, scrutinizing the wheels while I stand numb and hollow.
“Like I told you—” He shoves the gun into the waistband of his suit pants and stomps the closest wheel brake. “—it’s going to be okay. You’re in shock, but it’ll wear off.” He strides around the gurney, tapping off each brake. “All you need to do is keep your head down and toe the line.”
Toe the line? Impossible. I can’t be involved in this. And I refuse to believe my father is. At least not willingly.
“Olivia,” he grates. “I don’t have time to fuck around. Lead the way before I lose my patience.”
My arms fall to my sides, my feet heavy as I numbly comply.
I don’t understand.
The panic is too loud to think through.
I enter the hall, the soft squeak of the gurney following behind me to the delivery room.
How could the guy at my back be the same man who inspired the last six months’ worth of sinful daydreams? How could I have missed who he truly was—a criminal? A murderer?
I hold open the double doors of the delivery room, allowing Remy to pass me and continue to the lifeless body sprawled on the floor.
The van is gone. The overhead door, closed.
“Come over here,” he demands.
I shake my head and look away, the scent of urine and vomit permeating my lungs. “No.”
“Ollie, do you really want to do this the hard way? Where I force you to comply?” He grabs the guy’s shoulders, hauling his lifeless upper half off the ground. “Given how much I enjoyed your body against mine all those months ago, I don’t think that’s the way you want to play this.”
I scowl at the wall, hatred consuming me.
“Or maybe it is a preference.” He drags the guy closer to the gurney. “Do you want a repeat of that night at the bar?”
Bastard.
I cross the room, nauseous, murderous.
“Grab his feet,” he instructs but I barely hear the words. I’m stuck staring at the face of a man slightly older than my father, his skin a warm brown, his black hair curtaining his forehead. His head hangs limp to the side, his jaw slack, his eyes wide.
“Come on, Ollie. I want him gone before sunrise.”
I do the math, assessing the deceased, guesstimating his weight. It will take roughly two hours to cremate him. At least it would if he were in a casket.
I’m not familiar with a man-only incineration equation.
“Olivia,” Remy barks. “Snap out of it.”
“You don’t need me for this.” I meet his eyes, all that earthy darkness staring back at me. “If you lower the gurney you can roll him on yourself.”
“Yes. But if you participate, you’ll be far less inclined to run to the cops.”
Fucking bastard.
“Feet. Now.” He keeps dragging the man across the floor.
I follow slowly, waiting for him to pause before I grab the dead man’s ankles and help carry him to the raised platform, my actions feeling out-of-body.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Remy smirks at me, and I hate knowing that I would’ve swooned over the expression had it been given under different circumstances. He guides the gurney across the room, pushing against the doors, then briefly pauses to make sure I follow.
Once we reach the cremation room, he aligns the gurney beside the retort conveyor, shoves the body onto the movable metal slab, then presses the button to send it into the cremation cavity.
When the metal slab is fully extended, Remy leans in to hold the man’s feet, then retracts the conveyor, leaving the body to flop unceremoniously to the retort floor.
It’s wrong. So incredibly wrong, and disrespectful, and morally corrupt… but he does all the right things. Knows how to work the equipment. Has evidently been taught the drill.
He just skipped the casket and consensual disposal part.
“Come here.” He pushes the gurney aside and beckons me forward with a jerk of his chin.
My legs work without my permission.
I stare at the man inside the retort, bent and crumpled, the gentle flames flickering from the walls inside.
“I want you to do the honors,” Remy murmurs.
My gaze snaps to his. “No.” I lunge back.
He grabs my wrist, holding me tight. “I apologize if I made that sound like you had a choice.”
His eyes are stunning. Why are they so stunning?
How can he be incredibly beautiful and soul-shatteringly horrific at the same time?
“You’re going to do it, Ollie. This won’t end until you do.”
My body goes into meltdown, panic and helplessness turning me into a trembling wreck.
“It’s okay,” he says with such gentle conviction that a stupid part of me still wants to believe him. “This is almost over.”
My heart threatens to explode beneath my tightening ribs as I force myself to comply.
If he wants me implicated, that means he plans to keep me alive… right?
He won’t kill me if I participate?
“Let go.” I twist my wrist from his grip and then pull down the rectangular door to close the retort, locking it in place with shaking hands.
He remains close, forever tainting my personal space, his mouth closing in near my ear. “Now dispose of him.”
My pulse thuds everywhere. My temples. My throat. No place more adamant than my chest.
I sidestep to the control panel, my limbs heavy as I slowly turn the dial to increase the flames. I take my time, the build of heat incremental while I pray for something or someone to save me. To save this victim’s body.
I itch to grab Remy’s gun. To change this unfair power dynamic. To shove it against his beautiful face and?—
“Stop fucking around, Ollie.” He closes in at my back. “Finish him.”
A sob lodges in my throat. “I hate you.”
There’s a pause of silence, then: “I’d expect nothing less given the circumstances.” He places a gentle hand on my waist, the touch painfully familiar as he shadows me. The lingering effects of that night in the bar come back to haunt me. “But your fragile feelings are the least of my concerns.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“I suggest ditching the pessimism.” He speaks against my neck. “We need to get away with this, pyro. The alternative isn’t favorable for anyone involved. Including you and your father.”
I clench my teeth. Scrunch my nose.
“You can do it.” He squeezes my hip. “This is the final step.”
I suck in a deep breath. Swallow.
Just do it, Liv. Save yourself and figure out the rest later.
It takes all my strength to twist my hand, jerking the knob to maximum capacity in one fell swoop.
My arm falls to my side as the whoosh of familiar flames fills my ears and residual heat envelopes me.
Then a guttural groan carries from inside the retort.
A. Goddamn. Fucking. Groan.