Remy

18. Olivia

OLIVIA

The next eighthours pass with a packed schedule that doesn’t allow room for Allison or Ivy to grill me over being late and looking like a swamp monster.

They leave with cautious goodbyes as if waiting for me to explain myself, but I don’t engage in anything other than a quick farewell and a half-hearted finger wave.

I escort Dad upstairs, making sure he’s settled and has a fridge full of food. I don’t pester him about the cancer. It’s clear he’s exhausted, and I can barely keep my eyes open so I kiss his cheek, tell him how much I love him, and catch an Uber home to a quiet house that still lingers with the woodsy scent of Remy.

Alexandra’s service concluded without a hitch. The news coverage was respectful. The Pelosi Funeral Home was portrayed in an exceptionally professional and compassionate manner. So much so that I’m sure we’ll see an increase in business over the coming months.

That thought alone should be enough to deplete what’s left of my drained energy. But as soon as I enter my living room and catch sight of the devices I’d previously given Remy now sitting on my dining table, a resurgence of energy courses through me.

I don’t care that the electronics supposedly have tracking software, or how my searches will be monitored. I grab my laptop, slump down on my sofa, and start an online search on Remy Costa.

Page upon page of results fill the screen, most dated prior to last year.

Playboy Fashion Heirs Release New Clothing Line

Style, Status, and Success: The Untold Story of a Fashion Prodigy

Tragedy Strikes as Alleya Warehouse Engulfed in Blaze: Remy Costa Speaks in Wake of Fire

The headlines don’t track with the man I know.

Fashion heir? Prodigy? Playboy?

I dig deeper, adding keywords—controversy, criminal, Baltimore.

I find more recent articles: Alleya Patriarch Found Dead

Mass Exodus. Alleya Heirs Jump Ship

From Negligees to Night Clubs—Denver’s Fashion Heirs Set Sights on Baltimore

I skim every write-up. Commit every image to memory. But whenever one of my questions is answered, ten more take its place.

I dive deep into the relatively recent and untimely death of Remy’s father, Emmanuel. I learn about Lorenzo Cappelletti. His powerful connections. The investments worth millions. And still, it’s not enough.

I read for hours, until my eyes burn and my head throbs. I begin to doze mid article, my head nodding, my laptop resting on my thighs, the living room lights still on. I drift into weightlessness. Soar. Then there he is, the infamous mafia man with tousled dark blond hair, stalking down a shadowed hall toward me in his impeccable suit, all calm and controlled.

My heart races as I backtrack into a heavy piece of furniture, the wickedly sinful man closing in on me, his hard thighs pressing into mine. I hold my breath, my focus trained on a dark gaze that makes my heart flutter. I don’t understand his effect on me. I’m scared but excited. Terrified yet turned on. He leans closer. My mouth tingles. His scent envelopes me, his lips so tempting?—

I startle awake, my pulse rampant, my breathing ragged.

I listen for noise. For movement. For Remy.

Why would he be here, idiot?

He’s more likely to be out murdering the masses. Slaughtering civilians. Conquering my cremator.

Oh, shit.Could he be disposing of another body right now?

My breathing comes hard and fast, the witching hour paranoia gripping me by the throat. What if he’s at work, leaving a trail of blood through the funeral home for someone to find? What if he makes another mistake and Hugo’s no longer employed to take the fall?

I shove from the sofa, grab my car keys, coat, and phone, and rush from the house to my car.

He needs to be given more thorough instructions on when he can and can’t use the retort. I have to outline how long it takes for the equipment to cool. To ensure he understands how to clean things properly so no trace of remains are left behind unlike the first time Hugo was suspected of using the equipment.

I’d call him if I had his number. But I don’t. So instead, I drive toward work, stopping where Remy had yesterday, leaving half a block of space between me and the two-story building to make sure I don’t unnecessarily wake my father by driving into the parking lot.

I focus on the chimney clinging to the side of the building. Squint at the very top.

The cremator is state-of-the-art, with the best afterburners to block any black smoke from entering the sky, but there’s always a distortion of heated air as it enters the atmosphere.

I see no distortion now.

That could change though. Remy might show up later. He might have already been.

I stay in my freezing car for hours, my coat an unworthy opponent against the winter temperature while I curse this stupid arrangement and the heartbreaking circumstances that made it necessary. I shiver as I wait, my exhausted blinks slower than dripping molasses until the sun threatens to break past the horizon.

Only then do I give up and drive home, almost frozen solid, to get ready for work while battling a sleep deprivation headache from hell.

I arrive at the funeral home half an hour early so I can check on my dad, who proceeds to shoo me away from his apartment door with enough renewed energy to place my mind slightly at ease. He’s regained his normal coloring. There’s light in his eyes, too.

“Liv, stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”

I stumble back down the outdoor stairs, my tired legs barely able to carry my weight, and sequester myself in the seclusion of my prep room, placing the do-not-disturb sign on the door.

Thankfully, Ivy and Allison heed the warning. They don’t come to greet me when they arrive. There are no sassy quips, and there’s no sexual innuendo about the new guy. More to the point, there’s no grilling on why I pulled an eleventh-hour arrival yesterday looking like a bedraggled Komondor.

They know I don’t often demand privacy unless I have a difficult decedent. Usually one with injuries that require meticulous concentration and long hours to finesse.

But I guess nobody told Wesley the drill, because midafternoon, a slight rap sounds at my door before it opens to showcase him standing on the other side in a black suit and polished leather shoes.

“Hey,” he greets.

I shoot him a two-second glance from beneath my face shield, then return my attention to the deceased eighty-nine-year-old woman on the prep table before me. “I’m busy.”

“I can see that. But we didn’t get time to talk yesterday, and I wanted to make sure you know I’m here to help.”

Help? No, he’s here to spy. To do whatever is necessary.

“Are you helping me or them?” I mutter under my breath.

He falls quiet a moment. “I thought we were all on the same team.”

Shit. We’re supposed to be. I still have the raised flesh on my fingertips to prove it. I’m not playing my cards right.

“We are.” I ignore the skitter of apprehension traveling down my spine and focus on smoothing out the sculpting clay filling the gash near Mrs. Clarke’s temple after her life-ending fall down a flight of cement stairs. “I’m just tired. It’s not easy trusting the process.”

“That’s understandable.” He opens the door wider and leans against the doorjamb. “From what I’m told, your dad had a few teething problems with that, too.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” I try not to be huffy. To bite my tongue. But it feels like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. My brain won’t stop with the panicked thoughts. I’ve constantly got Dad running through my mind. His health secrets haunt me.

Then there’s Remy, the man who helped and harassed me in equal measure. The same guy whose phantom scent still lingers in my lungs.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” Wesley offers.

“Sure.” I keep smoothing out Mrs. Clarke’s clay, hoping the whole ignore-him-and-he’ll-go-away trick from prep school still works.

“No, honestly, I am. You guys seem like good people. If there’s anything I can do to ease your mind or make this situation more tenable, let me know.”

I pause, the thing I want most shoving to the forefront of my consciousness as I glance up at him. “Can I have his phone number?”

Wesley leans back to peer down the hall, then lowers his voice. “Remy’s?”

I sure as hell have no interest in seeing or hearing from Lorenzo or Salvatore again, so, I reply, “Yeah. Remy’s.”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to disclose that info, but I can pass on a message. What do you want me to tell him?”

I’m hit with another wave of apprehension, this one pummeling right into my chest. “Forget it.”

I’m not supposed to have anything to do with the Grim Reaper—Lorenzo’s orders. I can’t risk rule-breaking so soon into this criminal agreement… at least not in such an obvious way.

I close my clay container and busy myself tidying up my work station.

“You sure there’s nothing else?” Wesley pushes from the doorframe.

“Actually, there is one thing.” I turn to face him, pulling off my latex gloves. “You can stay away from Ivy. She likes to flirt. Don’t get any ideas.”

He gives a subtle smirk, one Ivy would eat up like whipped cream on a chocolate sundae if given the chance. “I won’t. In return, you should focus on making sleep a priority. I promise everything is under control.”

There’s something pointed about his dictate. As if he knows I spent half the night spying on the cremator.

“Yes, sir. I’d also appreciate if you paid more attention to the sign on my door. It’s not there for decoration.”

“Fair enough.” He inclines his head and retreats. “But make sure you call out if you need anything.” He closes the door with the softest, most respectful click.

I throw my gloves to the trash and clasp onto the edge of my prep table, leaning into the exhaustion for a few brief moments.

I need to get Remy’s number. I won’t sleep tonight without it. I probably won’t sleep ever again unless I know more about his illegal activities whilst under my father’s roof. And as horrible as it is to acknowledge, I can’t trust my dad to tell me the truth.

“God, I hate this.” I straighten and wash my hands, then pull on a new pair of gloves.

I don’t get disturbed for the rest of the day. I’m not even approached when I creep into the break room for my lunch or the necessary double-strength afternoon coffees.

By the time I leave work, I’m a zombie. One who quickly rechecks my dad’s fridge to make sure he’s got enough food before being swatted out of his apartment. I drive home with the windows down in the hopes the winter air will keep me awake.

I buy dinner along the way, too focused on getting my hands back on my laptop to type in another online search about Remy to cook myself a proper meal. I eat the shrimp pad Thai from the takeout box as I scan the web, finding numerous photos of him at red-carpet fashion events where beautiful women cling to his arm, their besotted eyes fixated on his handsome face while he grins at the cameras.

How did he go from fashion to felonies? Mohair to murder?

I shower and contemplate going to bed, but instead drag my feet back to the sofa for more online stalking. Sleep claims me early enough, the brutal exhaustion throwing me into vivid dreams of warm, calloused hands sliding along the inside of my trembling legs. I’m clenching my thighs, whimpering for more when my head lulls forward, waking me abruptly.

I groan with the whiplash as my laptop teeters on the cushion then hits the floor, thudding on impact.

I close my eyes and scrub a hand down my face, but Remy’s right there, staring back at me from every corner of my mind.

My heartbeat increases from its already quickened pace. The calloused fingers of unease claw at my stomach.

He could be at the funeral home. Could be creating another twenty-thousand-dollar paycheck for my father.

“Goddamnit.” I shove to my feet and pace.

This panic isn’t healthy. The constant fixation is going to produce an ulcer at best, and I don’t want to contemplate the worst-case scenario. But I can’t make the mindless churn stop.

A six-by-four prison cell isn’t a place I aspire to live. Orange jumpsuits and being someone’s bitch? Nope. No, thank you.

I can’t leave my future in the hands of a man I barely know. A criminal I can’t trust.

I stride for the kitchen counter, grab my keys, cell, and coat again, then return to my viewing point down the darkened street of the funeral home.

It becomes a vicious cycle—stalk the family business at night, pester my dad for health updates before work, ignore my friends during the day.

Does Remy know he has to check for pacemakers or radioactive implants in the people he kills? What happens if he blows up the retort and in the process blows his cover with the resulting explosion?

Or worse, his men could betray him. They could already be talking to the Feds without him knowing.

The paranoia builds. So do the bags under my eyes.

I work on autopilot while at the funeral home, the do-not-disturb sign now a permanent fixture on my door as I count down the hours until I can resume internet stalking.

I learn that Remy has been buying up local businesses like he’s a teenage girl indulging in a shopping spree with Daddy’s credit card. The most recent purchase was a popular nightclub he aptly renamed Smoke Mirrors.

It isn’t until Wednesday morning that Ivy crosses my path in the break room and gives me a lackluster smile coupled with a subdued greeting. Her low vibe gives me pause until I remember why I’ve endured days of radio silence.

“Hey.” I grab my full coffee mug and walk for the hall. “Will this week never end? I’m so far behind schedule I can barely breathe.”

The lie heats my cheeks, but I continue walking away from her in an effort to hide the fraudulence.

If anything I’m well ahead of schedule. Coming in a little earlier to check on Dad and withdraw into the mortuary before Ivy and Allison arrive has meant more time at the prep table.

“I bet.” Her reply is solemn. “But you know where to find me when you’re ready to talk.”

I force myself to maintain my stride. She knows something’s wrong. Of course she does. Nothing gets past Ivy.

“If only I had something great to talk about,” I say over my shoulder. “Unfortunately there’s nothing but work, work, work.”

She doesn’t call me on my bullshit.

Nobody does. All week.

Maybe Dad came up with a cover story to keep them at bay. Or they’re distracted by the new suave employee. Either way, Friday arrives without me having to explain why I’ve been acting all kinds of dismissive. Problem is, sleep deprivation has me in a chokehold, my energy levels are nonexistent, and my cortisol is so messed up I’m on a constant anxiety spin cycle.

There’s no maintaining the craziness.

I can’t keep staking out the funeral home every night and acting like a hibernating bear all day. Falling asleep mid-embalm on Thursday was bad enough.

Then there’s Dad, who has Monday rostered as another leave day, which I can only assume means more chemo. It makes perfect sense for me to take over his responsibilities to give him headspace to focus on recovery.

I’mthe one Remy needs to liaise with.

I’mthe paranoid perfectionist who can make sure we don’t all end up with a relentless fear of dropping the soap in the shower.

I want to be on the inside. No, I have to be.

And if that means I have to steal my father’s cell to get Remy’s contact details, so be it.

It’s not like he’d hand over the murderer’s number if I asked when he won’t even disclose his health status.

“Thankfully he hasn’t changed his cell password in more than a decade,” I murmur as I hose down my workstation. I just need to hope like hell I don’t get caught because adding to my father’s worries isn’t an option.

“Are you talking to yourself?” Allison’s voice carries from the hall.

I ignore it, ignore her, my friendship score card receiving a one-star rating for how deplorably I’ve acted this week.

I pray she ignores me too. There’s only a few hours until the workday is over and then I can spend the entire weekend coming up with a foolproof plan to rewrite the train wreck of my life.

But the universe gives me the bird as Allison sneaks into my prep room and gently closes the door behind her.

“Hey.” She levels me with a sad smile.

“Hey.” I keep hosing, trying to pull off nonchalance that probably looks more like psychotic awkwardness. “Are you knocking off early?”

“No.” Her eyes turn pleading. “I actually came to see if you’re ready to discuss what’s been going on.”

I kill the water’s spray and yank the hose so it retracts into its spool. “What do you mean?” I grab my antibacterial spray bottle and douse my workstation, not daring to look at her for more than a brief second.

“Liv.” She sighs. “You know what I mean.”

Fuck. I’m not equipped for this conversation, despite having had five days to prep for it.

I shake my head and scrub at a nonexistent mark on the stainless-steel slab. “I’m sorry, Al, but I’m completely clueless. I’ve been busy as hell this week.”

“Don’t give me that. Ivy and I know exactly what’s going on, and we’re both scared.”

My hand pauses mid scrub, my pulse kicking into third gear.

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “We don’t know what to do.”

My skin breaks out in a wash of goose bumps.

They figured it out? When? More importantly, how am I going to hide their knowledge from Wesley so he doesn’t relay their insight to Remy?

I swallow. Backtrack.

I meet her gaze, the color draining from my face at the look of apprehension that stares back at me. “Al…”

“Please,” she begs. “We thought we were doing the right thing. We only wanted to help.”

I frown. Straighten.

“I swear it, Liv.” Her eyes plead. “When Ivy suggested she handle last weekend’s call-outs, I thought you’d appreciate it, despite your protests. I know better now. I should’ve listened to your instruction to divert the business line to your cell instead of going behind your back and transferring them to Ivy. Luckily, no calls came through, but still… It was the wrong thing to do.”

I blink at her, the cogs of cerebral function taking forever to turn.

“It was a mistake.” She steps closer. “And we’re both truly sorry. We’ll do whatever it takes to regain your trust and completely understand if we need to be given a formal reprimand. But please stop avoiding us. It’s been bad enough with Carlo keeping his distance, but the thought of losing you as a friend is killing me.”

They think my behavior is because of the whole on-call van thing?

I play it cool, bridging the space to my prep table to shoot it with another dose of antibacterial spray while I internally worship the universe for having my back after all. “We’re not the type of business that can fly by the seat of our pants. There’s insurance that needs to be in place, not to mention training and ethical protocols.”

I should be consumed with guilt. Should be drowning in it. But the vibe coursing through my veins is euphoric relief.

“I know. And I should’ve known at the time, too.” She throws her hands up at her sides. “Ivy and I just had one-track minds on trying to make things easier after the whole Hugo fiasco.”

“It didn’t make things easier.” I keep scrubbing, hating myself for how I’m about to double-down and make this excuse seem legitimate. “I stayed here to work on Amisha and her baby until super-late Friday night. And when I attempted to leave at an ungodly hour, the only form of transportation I had was my bike.”

Her jaw unhinges, her mouth gaping. “Oh, fuck.”

I’m the biggest piece of shit. But still, so unbelievably relieved.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I was stuck here. And calling an Uber to a funeral home at witching hour wasn’t an option when the only drivers willing to do that type of pick-up are problematic men.”

“So what did you do?”

“I slept on the break room sofa.”

Her face falls, the weight of needless remorse staring back at me. “I’m so sorry.”

I want to replicate the apology. To tell her I’m the one who needs forgiveness. For misleading. Misdirecting. Manipulating.

I never would’ve held the van debacle against her like this. I wouldn’t have spared it a second thought if I didn’t need to use it as an excuse to hide the criminal mess that’s been compiling right under her nose.

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I messed up. Please tell me you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course I will. I’m just tired.” I sprinkle some truth amongst the lies to soften my guilt. “I haven’t been sleeping.”

She cringes. “Yeah. I can kinda tell.”

I huff a laugh.

“Do you want a hug?” She spreads her arms wide.

“Oh, hell no.” I take a retreating step, the thought of comforting contact shooting my remorse skyward. “I’m fine. Honestly. It’s just been one of those weeks.”

“It must be contagious.” She lowers her arms and cocks her hip against my prep table. “Ivy’s had a tough break the last few days, too.”

“Why?” The memory of her forlorn greeting Wednesday morning comes back to haunt me. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Allison scrunches her nose. “I caught her mid-breakdown in the catering kitchen a few days ago. She said it was family stuff but didn’t elaborate. That’s kinda why I’m here, breaking the do-not-disturb decree. I was hoping we could mend bridges for her sake, too. She needs you.”

God, the guilt.

I’m such a horrible friend.

“I’m dragging her out tonight for booze and bad decisions.” Allison bats her lashes. “Do you want in?”

I open my mouth, poised to relay my trademark emphatic refusal, but something niggles in the back of my mind, giving me pause.

Someone, to be more precise.

“Where are you headed?” I ask.

Allison’s expression brightens. “I haven’t picked a destination… but if you’re on board, I’m happy to take suggestions.”

I nod despite the alarm bells ringing in my sleep-deprived brain. Could this be what I need to get my life back on track? My opportunity to get Remy’s number instead of stealing it from Dad’s phone? To maybe even speak to Remy in person?

“I’d love to come,” I lie. “As long as we can go to Smoke Mirrors.”