Remy

12. Olivia

OLIVIA

His agreement bringsthe slightest relief.

I need to keep busy, otherwise the murmurs of panic in my mind will become deafening shouts.

I can’t fixate on what’s happened. Or what the future will bring. Not until I can speak to Dad and get solid answers—ones I can trust.

Remy makes a small detour through a fast-food drive-thru to order breakfast and coffee, his manners sickeningly impeccable as he speaks to staff. A short time later he parks the Bentley at the funeral home and cuts the engine.

After more than thirty minutes stuck in a car, I would’ve thought the haunting grasp of his hands would’ve left my body. But the feel of him against me continues to linger.

I hate it. Hate him.

Yet apparently that doesn’t stop me from being attuned to his energy.

“Me being here during the day is a risk,” he mutters. “If I’m seen?—”

I unclasp my belt and shove from the car before he can change his mind.

I stride for the delivery room door and the little locked box screwed into the wall seeing as though my hasty escape earlier meant I left my keys inside. I’m pretty sure I left my innocence and happiness in there, too, but I’m not sure I’ll get those back.

I enter the PIN code, press the remote inside, and wait impatiently as the overhead door slowly rises.

A car door slams behind me, Remy’s approaching footsteps bringing anxiety. I don’t wait for him to catch up. I duck under the half-opened door and enter the delivery room to do a quick scan for signs of illegal activity.

There’s nothing. Not even the stench of urine and bile from earlier.

I hustle into the hall and do the same frantic visual sweep. Then move to the cremation room where I flick on the lights and pause in the doorway.

The air is warm, the heat still emanating from the dormant retort.

Everything is as it should be. There’s no sign of the struggle I endured or the trauma inflicted.

For some reason, I thought those horrific moments would’ve changed the space somehow. That my ordeal would’ve tainted the room, stained the walls, or shifted the foundation in some way.

Yet nothing is out of the ordinary.

I inch toward the retort, my heart in my throat as I wheel aside the gurney placed in front of it and check the primary chamber for remnants of the deceased.

Again, nothing.

No fissures of bone, titanium rods, or ball joints.

“I’m open to critiques if the cleanup isn’t to your standards.”

I tense, not only at Remy’s presence but my inability to critique even if I wanted to.

It’s as if the trauma never happened—his victim a figment of my imagination.

I turn to face him standing in the doorway, carrying the take-out food bag and coffee tray.

“How many?” I whisper.

I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. Not him, at least. I want a reliable answer I can trust, which means it can only come from my father. But intrusive thoughts have me in a chokehold.

He raises a brow. “How many?”

“You know exactly what I’m asking. How many crimes? How many bodies?”

“Enough.”

One word. No emotion. Just handsome, detached indifference.

“Enough for what?” I dare to demand. “My disgust? My hatred? The utter decimation of my faith in humanity?”

“All of the above.” He leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “Trust me, you don’t want to know my stats, pyro.”

I flinch at the nickname—how he always throws it in my face like a taunt.

I press a hand against my turbulent stomach. “How can you be so callous?”

“Compassion is something that’s taught. I never had a teacher. But you can rest assured that all those who’ve died at my hands are just as unworthy of life as I am.”

“Those people would’ve had families… Loved ones.”

He inclines his head. “True. The guy from last night had both. A wife. A son. But that kid was Thursday night’s barbecue.”

All the air escapes my lungs.

I stare at him, searching for guilt that has to be hidden somewhere. But no matter how hard I focus on those handsome features, my efforts are in vain.

He’s emotionless. Devoid of remorse.

“I need to get to work.” I swallow over my building nausea, refusing to let it weaken me. “Can I have my phone back?”

He shrugs. “Depends what you want it for?”

“To message my father. To listen to music.” To research the mastermind currently holding me hostage.

He gives me a pointed look as if hearing the thoughts I’ve left unspoken. “I’ll think about it.”

Asshole.

He raises a sardonic brow, as if hearing that, too.

I suck in a deep breath to stem the frustration. “Can you at least leave me alone to do my job? My decedents deserve privacy.”

He’s quiet a moment, his scrutiny giving me goose bumps. “You need to eat.”

A scoff escapes before I can clamp it down. “Given my duties, I’ve learned to stomach food through many emotions, Grim, but disgust isn’t one of them.”

His jaw ticks, my loathing seeming to affect him when the vilest of his atrocities doesn’t.

He pushes from the doorframe, towering to his full height. He walks toward me, his predatory steps decimating the space between us.

My pulse quickens and I fight against the need to backtrack as his callous gaze clutches me in its poisoned grip.

“Eat, Ollie.” He smacks the food bag on the metal gurney at my side, then does the same with the coffee tray. “God forbid you pass out in my presence. You wouldn’t want to learn what someone as vile as me is capable of when left to my own devices around an incapacitated woman.”

I remain frozen. Sickened.

He reaches inside his jacket.

I suck in a breath, waiting for a gun to be drawn. But it’s my cell he retrieves, clapping the device down beside the food.

Then he turns on his heel and strides from the room.

I don’t breathe again until he’s in the hall, my gasp for air hissing in my ears.

I ignore the food and grab my cell, unsure why he’d risk giving it back until I realize I don’t have to enter my security details to unlock the screen.

He’s bypassed my pin somehow. Probably added some form of spyware or blocked me from calling the authorities.

I don’t care.

My Google stalking can wait. For now, I settle for contact with my father, the lifeline enough to leave me feeling slightly appeased and naively protected.

I spend the passing hours working in the mortuary, messaging dad whenever my anxiety piques. I ask for updates and try to determine when he’ll need a ride home, completely ignoring the mafia noose around our necks.

His answers are vague.

Dad

No need to worry about me.

I’m convinced hospital coffee is just dirt and hot water.

Only a few more tests to run.

There’s no elaboration on what the tests are or how he’s feeling. He’s in full-blown avoidance mode. I’ll wear him down, though. I just need to talk to him alone.

God, we have so much to figure out.

It isn’t until after lunch that the mortuary door opens and Remy invites himself in to dump a filled coffee mug and a granola bar on the stainless-steel tool tray beside me.

I ignore the peace offering, at least until he leaves the room and my grumbling stomach convinces me that succumbing to his bribe is far better than being violently hangry after I refused to eat the breakfast he bought this morning.

More hours pass. The anxiety roller coaster continues.

I’m sterilizing my preparation bench after finishing Amisha and her daughter’s embalming when I hear something over the music humming from my cell playlist.

I pause. Cock my head.

It’s faint. Barely a murmur of Remy’s voice. But I’ve heard that all day. I even eavesdropped on a call he made earlier to Russo—the interloper from the bar—until I grew exhausted trying to decipher his deceptive lingo.

I continue busying myself with a deep clean of my instruments in the sink and zone out, watching the water cascading over the stainless steel, my heart heavy, my limbs tired.

I need sleep. Food. Maybe a lobotomy. Not necessarily in that order.

Ten minutes later, the prep room door opens again and Remy strides in to grab my cell from the counter, silencing Billie Eilish mid chorus.

“Obviously you didn’t hear me earlier.” He returns the device to the counter. “Your dad is here. I just finished settling him upstairs.”

I dump my tools in the sink, quickly wrench the faucet, then yank off my protective gear and rush for the hall.

“Choose your words wisely when speaking to him,” Remy warns, following me to the outside stairs leading to my father’s home on the second floor. “It’s best not to give him details on what happened last night.”

I pause on the third step. “Why?”

“Because this situation can’t handle any more complications.”

I slowly turn, needing to see what he means. What he’s hiding.

He peers up at me from the cement path, his expression giving nothing away. “Like your father mentioned at the hospital, he requires my family’s money for his treatment.” He grabs the handrail and takes a predatory step. “You wouldn’t want to risk messing that up, would you?”

I hear the threat for what it is.

But it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours and I’m already becoming burned out from intimidation.

“Your game plan can’t be to keep threatening me forever, Remy. It’s unsustainable.”

He encroaches another step, suffocating my personal space for a moment of intense eye contact that has my mouth drying. “Have more faith in me.”

God, I want to gouge his gorgeous face.

“How this proceeds is entirely up to you.” He continues upward, nudging around me. “If you’re sick of threats then come to terms with the arrangement and keep your pretty mouth shut.”

Fire consumes my chest, the fury heating my eyes.

I may have withheld my tears of sorrow for years, but holding back those of violent rage might break me.

His footfalls continue up the staircase, each thud a hearty punch through my insides.

I have no bargaining power. No collateral. Or do I?

I turn to him, finding him halfway up the stairs. “We could find the money elsewhere. He doesn’t need you.”

“Well, I need his equipment, so unless you’re willing to forfeit your life, I suggest you keep things civil.” He pauses at the landing. “If you didn’t already notice at the hospital, your father trusts me. I suggest you learn to do the same. Now move your ass. Let’s make this short and sweet. Your father has to concentrate on recovery.”

His fake concern for my dad only enrages me further.

I stalk up the stairs and maneuver in front of him, cautious not to make contact with the devil as I open the door to my childhood home.

It’s been weeks since I’ve been in here and years since my mother died, but this place is always teeming with her scent of cedarwood and patchouli. I don’t want Remy anywhere near it. Near her. His presence spits in the face of all the good she brought into this world.

I pass the small entry and continue into the open living area, all the air escaping my lungs in relief at the sight of my dad seated on his plush grey sofa, a bandage still covering his forehead.

I rush for him, taking in the fatigue in his eyes as I lunge onto the cushioned seat beside him to wrap him in a hug. “What were you thinking, driving home on your own? You should’ve called. Why didn’t you?”

He returns the gesture, his arms heavy around me. “I wasn’t alone. Remy arranged a driver to bring me and my car back from the city.”

Fucking Remy.Always one step ahead.

“You should’ve asked me.” I withdraw to meet my father’s gaze. “I would’ve got an Uber into the city and brought your car back myself.”

“It wasn’t necessary.” The asshole speaks from somewhere behind me. “One of my men was already close by.”

I don’t acknowledge him. Don’t even look in his direction.

“Tell me what the doctor said.” I grasp my father’s hands, silently begging for full transparency.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Liv. Everything is as it should be.”

“But what is everything exactly? I want to know the type of cancer. The prognosis. How many chemo treatments you’ve had…”

His smile turns apologetic. “I’ve already told you all you need to know.”

My stomach hollows. “Dad, you haven’t?—”

“Why did you come back here after the hospital anyway?” he cuts me off with a blatant segue. “You should’ve gone home to rest.”

I slide my hand away from his to stem the ache of dismissal. “I needed to keep busy. My mind isn’t a comforting place right now.”

He winces. “I promise I’m fine.”

“Your health is only one of many things that worry me, Dad.”

“I know.” He looks down at his hands in his lap. “My worst fear was that you would find out about the situation with Remy’s family from someone other than me. I’m sorry, fragolina.”

I settle back into my seat. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was hoping you wouldn’t have to find out at all.” Dad takes great interest in the aging skin on the back of his hand, rubbing his thumb repeatedly over his knuckles. “It’s not something I thought you’d understand.”

“You’re right,” I whisper. “I don’t.”

What hurts most is that I’d assumed we had the same values. That we were cut from the same cloth. Has he somehow changed from the man who tag-teamed Mom in teaching me right from wrong?

“I need you to explain it to me.” I tilt my head, attempting to meet his gaze. “Because I don’t believe you willingly walked into something this morally corrupt.”

The hairs on my nape tingle in foreboding, my senses on high alert for a reprimand to my disobedience from Remy.

“I promise I did.” Finally Dad meets my gaze. Tired. Solemn. Yet resolute. “I’ve hidden a lot of pain from you over the years. A wealth of anger, too.” He quits rubbing his knuckles, instead tangling his fingers in his lap. “Your mother’s cancer battle was a lot more complicated than we made out. And it wasn’t only grief that brought me to my knees when she passed but an overwhelming sense of injustice at how the health system let us down.”

My heart skips a pained beat. “Let us down how?”

“They denied assistance for costly experimental treatments she hoped to try. And when she went to seek a second opinion from a more experienced doctor, they warned her that doing so would be considered out-of-network care. Even without moving forward on those options we were left majorly out of pocket due to our level of coverage.”

My eyes mist. “If I’d known she went without, I could’ve…” Could’ve what? You were a teenager. What could you have achieved that your grown-ass parents couldn’t facilitate?

“There was nothing that could’ve been done. I tried everything. I even begged. But the corporate greed cycle didn’t care. The healthcare system in this country is corrupt and the knowledge has eaten away at me ever since.” He straightens his shoulders. “So when I got sick, I knew something had to change. The definition of insanity is doing something over and over again and expecting different results.”

I swallow over the lump in my throat. “Dad…”

“I’m not insane, Liv. I entered into this agreement willingly. I chose this path.”

I shake my head. I don’t believe him. I can’t. “But they’re killing people. They’re illegally disposing of bodies in our retort.”

“What they’re disposing of is none of my business. Any actions taken would still be carried out whether I was financially compensated for the hire of the equipment or not.”

Actions?

“They’re not actions, Dad. They’re crimes. Murders. Ones that will put us behind bars.”

“We won’t get caught.” He grabs my hand in both of his. “Not if you keep quiet.”

I drag my arm away in shock.

They’ve brainwashed him. Indoctrinated my father into some sort of sick cult.

“Liv, please. I know this situation seems appalling, but I’ve learned that this world isn’t as black and white as I once taught you.”

I’m definitely seeing more of a spectrum of color at the moment. However, morally grey isn’t something I want in my wheelhouse.

“This isn’t you.” I push to my feet. “They’ve messed with your head somehow.”

“No. I’m more sure than I’ve ever been. I trust Remy. He’s the one who’s helped me.” He peers up at me, his eyes beseeching. “Our health insurance didn’t care about my diagnosis. They didn’t offer additional support or assistance. Even the wait to see an oncologist was detrimentally excessive until Rem made some calls.”

My gaze turns to the so-called trustworthy son of a bitch who leans with quiet indifference against the side of my father’s favorite recliner, emotionless yet still somehow exuding arrogance.

“How did you meet?” I demand. “Tell me how all this started. I want to know everything.”

“I crossed paths with his uncle a long time ago,” my father offers. “He came here for a friend’s funeral, his reputation proceeding him. What I was unaware of, though, was his charisma. He sought me out at the wake for what began as a casual conversation. But the longer we talked, the more I enjoyed his company.”

“Of course you enjoyed his company,” I press. “You were his mark.”

“Maybe.” He gives a fond smile. A fond fucking smile. “He praised me on his friend’s service and then went on to compliment our facilities. He didn’t hide who he was. He admitted that his line of work was probably exactly what I imagined—neither moral nor honorable. Then he made a joke about how we should work together. That the use of my equipment would be a great asset to his organization that would be handsomely rewarded.”

“He played to your ego.”

“He did.” My father inclines his head. “And I laughed him off, soon bidding him farewell without a backward glance. He didn’t contact me. Didn’t bribe, pressure, or threaten me. I didn’t even think much of our conversation again until your mom’s hospital bills began to accumulate and make life more difficult. But I never sought him out.” Dad returns to his knuckle examination. “Not even after we lost Melissa and I became jaded. I did everything I was supposed to—I focused on reducing the debt from her treatments, and we bounced with the helping hand of a pandemic. I tried to be a good father. I kept my anger to myself. I gave back to my community. I helped others with their grief while I remained overwhelmed by my own. Then cancer came for me, too.”

My eyes burn, not only with sadness and rage, but resentment at the world. My damn tear ducts are running the gamut today.

“I promised myself I’d never let the animosity that changed me during your mother’s battle get anywhere near you. I refused to let the banks touch a dime of your inheritance. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let them take the business and family home that’s been a part of the Pelosi name for generations. So years after that one random conversation, I reached out to Lorenzo. It was me, Liv. I did this.”

I don’t know what to say. What to feel.

I want to be angry at him. For making choices that can—and have—affected the very foundation of my life. But all that rattles around inside me is anguished heartache and hollowing shock.

He’s suffered for so long without me taking notice. Far longer than the months of my ignorance since the cancer diagnosis.

“Dad—”

“No, listen,” he begs. “I know the decision I made was unethical, but that’s all it was or ever will be—a decision. I’m not a participant in any illegal activity. I don’t know what goes on downstairs while Remy’s there. I hire out the cremator. That’s all. What happens while it’s used isn’t my business. The agreement is that I don’t get involved. I’m not given incriminating information, and I don’t bear witness to any unlawful activity.”

I drag my attention to Remy. A silent lucky Dad sits on the tip of my tongue.

I yearn to destroy the trust my father has in this man. To decimate the relationship that’s violently contrary to the one I have with the murderer.

“How much is the hire fee?” I continue to hold Remy’s gaze, pretending not to be intimidated. If he’s cheating my father, all bets are off. I’ll blab. Rat. Whatever the hell he wants to call it. Because putting our freedom on the line for a few hundred dollars isn’t going to cut it.

“Twenty thousand.” Remy slides his hands into his pockets, a laid-back checkmate gesture if there ever was one.

I snap my lips shut to stop a gasp.

“Does that meet your expectations?” He raises a demeaning brow.

I open my mouth. Close it again.

Twenty thousand? Is that a one-time fee? Per year? Per month?

“Every use,” he clarifies, yet again reading my mind.

“It’s a lot of money.” The sofa creaks as my dad ambles to his feet. “It’s allowed me to get the best treatment, Liv. I’m doing far better than where I would’ve been without his help.”

I bite my tongue, refusing to be thankful, loathing that maybe I should be.

“Will you tell me how you found out?” Dad wanders toward me. “I’ve felt so guilty for not being here. Remy messaged me vague details, but there’s only so much that can be shared on the phone without it becoming incriminating.”

Hearing him speak freely about messaging a criminal sits like a lead balloon in my gut.

“You said you fell asleep downstairs,” Dad encourages.

I nod and side-eye Remy, trying to get a gauge on how he feels about this line of questioning, but yet again, his expression is unreadable. “I started preparing Amisha and the baby. It got late without me noticing so I thought I’d sleep in the break room. Then a noise outside woke me.”

Remy’s jaw tightens.

Good. Fear my volatility, you son of a bitch.

All it would take is a few words to blow this agreement to pieces—he pulled a gun on me. He made me dispose of a body.

“It’s okay, fragolina.” Dad grasps my upper arms, rubbing gently. “You can tell me.”

God, how I wish I could. But evil is destined to win this round.

“Remy was standing in the hall—” I swallow over the horrid taste of the lie. “—just as shocked to see me as I was to see him.”

The subtlest of smirks tweaks one side of the asshole’s lips. Another faint triumphant gesture.

Fucking prick.

“I bet you were so scared.” My father squeezes my arms.

Petrified, Dad. Traumatized.

“I still am.” I meet my father’s gaze, drowning in the waves of apology that stare back at me. “I don’t know how I’ll ever not be.”

His brows soften. “You’ll learn to trust him. I know you will.”

Before or after hell freezes over? Because right now, I can’t think of anything less likely than me gaining faith in a man who sees death as sport. I’ve got more chance of receiving presidential recognition for my socializing skills.

“We should go.” Remy pushes off the recliner to stand to his full height. “Carlo needs to rest.”

“No.” My eyes widen. “I want to know how long this agreement will last. How many victims there’ll be. And what happens if the authorities get involved?”

“The authorities won’t get involved.” Remy starts for the entry. “Not unless someone opens their mouth.”

“She won’t talk,” my father vows. “Will you, Liv?”

I would.

I’d sing like a canary, tweet-tweeting my way through every step of what I was forced to do if only my dad hadn’t tangled himself up in this horribly criminal web.

“How long will it last?” I repeat, ignoring my father’s misplaced faith.

Remy pauses.

My dad falls quiet.

I glance between them as a sense of foreboding enters the chat. “How long?”

“It’s a fluid situation.” Dad focuses on Remy’s back. “There isn’t an exact end date.”

“Are you saying this could go on forever?” I can’t keep the horror from my tone. “How could you?—”

“It won’t last forever.” Remy swings around to shoot what seems to be an apologetic look at my father before spearing me with animosity. “Six months. Maybe twelve. Once the situation with the Mexican cartel is resolved?—”

“By resolved do you mean once they’re eradicated?” My pulse quickens. “Do you plan on disposing of an entire cartel in our retort?”

How many people would that be? Twenty? Fifty? Two hundred?

“If necessary,” he growls. “Their organization has been significantly dismantled this week. I anticipate some retaliation for the sake of their pride, but after that things will die down.”

“Dismantled how?” I ask.

“Liv.” My dad speaks softly. “It’s best not to know.”

Maybe. But ignorance isn’t a type of bliss I can achieve now that I know I’m straddling a prison sentence while caught in the middle of a war between the mafia and a cartel.

“This is madness.” I shake my head. “Dead bodies. Mexican cartels. Fired employees.”

“Fired employees?” My father frowns. “Who are you talking about?”

“Hugo.” I fling my arms out at my sides in exasperation. “Ivy found the retort warm when she came into work yesterday morning. And after he was suspected of disposing of his dog months ago, I just assumed…”

Dad cringes.

“That’s why this is such a mess.” My voice hitches. “Carelessness is going to get us caught, if not by the police, then by our staff.”

“It’s okay.” He inches toward me. “I can coach you over the weekend at what to say and?—”

“No.” Remy grates, his cocky calm eviscerated. “I’ll do it. You need to focus on recovery. I’m taking Ollie home.”

My stomach flips, fear and anger performing rhythmic gymnastics inside me.

“Say goodbye to your father.” There’s a warning in Remy’s tone. One that couldn’t have only been heard by me.

I turn pained eyes to my dad, waiting for him to step in. To admonish my tormentor.

All he does is give a sad smile, spreading his arms wide to wrap me in a hug. “I promise it’s going to be okay.”

Dread fills my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “How?” I whisper. “He doesn’t trust me to be alone. He’s going to shadow me.”

Dad squeezes tighter. “But you can understand that, can’t you? There’s a lot at stake, and having someone close by to answer your panicked questions is necessary until you wrap your head around the situation.”

“Then let me stay here,” I beg.

He winces. “I wish I could. But I already know you can handle this. Remy’s the one you need to convince.”

I blink through the static taking over my head.

He isn’t surprised Remy is going to tail me. Have they already discussed it?

Oh, God, I’m on my own.

“I’m so sorry.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. “It’s my fault this is messier than it needs to be.” He cups my cheeks, his expression distraught. “But I beg you to give this a chance.”

My stomach revolts. Twisting. Clenching.

“He’s a good man, fragolina.” Dad’s thumbs stroke my jaw, the gentle back and forth a contrast to my riotous emotions. “You may not see it yet. But I promise you will.”

“He’s a murderer.” My voice is barely audible.

“Because he needs to be. Please just have an open mind.”