Chapter 12
ROSALIE
Blood, sweat, and tears. That was the currency for men like those in my family. Every calloused hand held the story of a struggle. It was etched into the lines on their faces and in the dried blood beneath their nails, paired with a devilish but not quite sinful smile.
Morals were a gray area, and pride wasn’t a word I associated with them. It was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Which was exactly why I was standing shivering in the drizzle, with the damp air clinging to my freshly dry-cleaned dress.
Cillian’s funeral was being held at a small church.
It was more than my uncle deserved, though the service still felt more like an afterthought than a way for people to grieve.
This was made obvious by the lack of mourners and the cold stares of the ones who did show up.
I vaguely recognized a few of them from my childhood.
Their expressions were bored, just as I remembered.
The entire graveyard was overgrown with weeds and surrounded by a rusty iron fence. The headstones were like neglected teeth, some chipped, some stained, a few tilted at crooked angles.
My heels disappeared into the mud with a squelch—a sound that perfectly matched the approaching storm clouds. The air was wet, muggy, and the brewing storm was waiting for no one. I felt a drop of rain splash against my cheek. I didn’t bother wiping it off.
I pressed myself against the cold, damp stone railing.
My gaze darted nervously across the crowd.
Then a flash of movement snagged my attention.
It was Marco, half-hidden by a group of men.
He towered over all of them, well over 6’2”, with broad shoulders that strained against the back of his tailored navy-blue suit.
He didn’t come by often—once, maybe twice a year, if you were lucky.
He was one of my father’s men, a lawyer specializing in high-profile cases, which was just a fancy way of saying he defended people with more money than morals.
Of course one of his clients happened to be my dear old dad.
Marco was in his thirties, as mature and corrupt as they come.
He had dark hair, stubble, and eyes that seemed guarded.
He hardly ever said a word. The man was almost deadly silent.
He wouldn’t be caught dead divulging personal details.
Getting information out of him was like waiting for the sky to turn green.
His gaze, usually sharp and focused, drifted somewhere off into the distance. I followed his line of sight, which landed on Valentina—the woman he’d made a widow, according to my sister.
A muscle clenched in his jaw briefly. It was the only sign of emotion I’d ever seen him show. Then, as if sensing my scrutiny, his gaze met mine across the graveyard.
He excused himself from the group with a curt nod.
Oh. He was coming over here.
When he finally reached me, he stopped just a breath away. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in the most deep, monotone voice I’d ever heard. It was one accustomed to giving orders, not offering condolences.
“Are you?” I asked. My voice snagged in my throat. Daisy’s accusation echoed in my head, a seed of doubt blooming into a thorny vine. “They say you’re the one who did it.”
“They say a lot of things,” he countered, narrowing his eyes. “Who ‘they’ are is the more pertinent question, yeah?”
Classic lawyer response. He was a viper in an Armani suit; a predator who thrived in the bloodstained waters of the courtroom. He wouldn’t ever admit it. Marco would never put himself in a jeopardizing position.
“What makes you think I’d tell you my secrets?”
A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “You’d tell me them for the same reason you’d bother telling me you have any to begin with.”
Somehow, he’d managed to turn it onto me. I tried to hide my nerves, but it was impossible not to be intimidated by him. His eyes were cold, calculating.
“Are you staying here in New York?” I asked, desperate to change the topic.
He shook his head. “New Orleans.”
“What’s in New Orleans?” I asked, curious. The humid city felt worlds away from New York.
He stood by my side, refusing to keep his back to the crowd, unguarded. “Work.”
“What kind of work?” I pressed.
He studied me for a long moment. “The kind that doesn’t concern you.”
“Why are you here then?”
“Unfinished business,” he answered. His gaze darted toward the crowd. “Loose ends to tie up.”
“Loose ends like Cillian?” I glanced down at my muddy shoes. The question had tumbled out before I could stop it.
Before he could give me an answer, the church bell clanged out an off-key toll. The hearse rolled into view, its brakes screeching. It felt wrong, terribly wrong, to be standing beside this man, the murderer, at the funeral.
Marco lifted a hand, his touch sending a jerk through me as he guided me toward the black carriage. There was barely a gap between us.
A few dozen people gathered outside with umbrellas and somber expressions. Obligatory attendees, like a lot of them.
Pallbearers—six men who looked like they’d done this a million times too many—lumbered out of the hearse carrying an oak coffin.
It was polished—the kind of casket reserved for saints and Nobel laureates, not a man whose greatest heist involved a particularly large shipment of something powdery.
The flowers on top, Momma’s collection of lilies and carnations, felt like a joke. No one felt bad. The man had it coming.
Uncle Cillian had been after my father’s rule for a while, circling him like an unhinged vulture for years. Their rivalry stretched back to childhood, a feud that had somehow managed to involve my mother (a whole other story).
The priest droned on about the sanctity of life and the importance of good deeds, but his words were lost on me.
My focus was on Aunt Rita—a woman hidden in a black veil, standing far away beneath a single tree.
Like me, she wasn’t exactly mourning my uncle’s death.
Her motives for attending were nearly as transparent as the cheap diamonds she wore.
The inheritance, of course, and the lack of her own.
She wouldn’t get a dime—not since Cillian was a married man.
Married to Valentina, no less. It was a marriage of convenience for money on her part, and a power play on his.
Valentina would inherit everything—eventually.
With Cillian having held a high position, the money would first go to my father.
I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d made her sign a prenup. Knowing Valentina, I doubted it. The only reason she’d married Uncle Cillian in the first place was for his money. The entire situation reeked of opportunism, but Valentina deserved her payday.
If she knew what was good for her, she’d pack her bags, grab the dough, and hightail it out of here, leaving this dysfunctional family of blood and lies behind.
Once the priest was done and the fake tears had been shed, everyone slowly broke off into small clusters of hushed conversations.
There, approaching from the side of the building, was a man named Remy.
He was the lawyer who was always around, handling my father’s legal affairs day in and day out.
If things ever got really complicated, that was when Marco would step in, but only when a case demanded more than even Remy could handle.
Marco was better—and almost always more expensive.
That was probably why he was hardly around.
Remy was from New Orleans, just like Marco. He’d grown up in Faubourg Marigny, surrounded by law his entire life. His grandfather was a legendary defense attorney who’d taught him the ropes. After graduating top of his class at Stanford, Remy had come back to take over the family firm.
Remy arrived, a polite smile gracing his features. I’d never officially met him before, only heard of him.
“Marco,” he greeted, “who’s this?”
Oh, he was charming.
I held out my hand. “Rose,” I said, introducing myself before Marco even had the chance.
“Remy,” he said, extending his hand toward mine. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Pleasure is all mine. I heard about the case you and your grandfather worked on before he retired. That man had been locked up for eight years before you guys helped him.”
Remy smiled. “Practice makes perfect, I suppose. It wouldn’t have been possible if Marco hadn’t introduced us. He knew quite a few people in the service who got tied up in the wrong things.”
Service? Like, the military? The realization slammed into me. It wasn’t just Marco’s legal background that explained his composure; this explained everything—his unflinching stare, his controlled demeanor, his cryptic comment about patience.
Based on his appearance, it didn’t exactly shock me, but the fact I hadn’t known showed just how secretive the man really was.
“The service, huh?” I ventured. “Army, Navy, Marines . . .?”
“Classified,” Marco replied firmly.
I blinked. I didn’t think I was supposed to know about the time he’d served. “I see,” I said. He wouldn’t elaborate. Remy, too, seemed caught off-guard by Marco’s abruptness. I glanced at Marco, who still hadn’t looked away, his jaw tight as ever. “And you and Marco know each other well?”
“Professionally, yes.” Remy’s smile was polite, almost amused, as if he was used to this line of questioning. “Though, truth be told, Marco’s expertise is a bit . . . beyond my usual purview.”
“Because he’s willing to do what others won’t?” I ventured, lowering my voice. Marco knew what I really meant.
Remy gave a measured nod. “One way to put it.” His gaze shifted to Marco. “But Marco’s . . . selective in his cases. He’s usually called in when there are no options left.”
“Which case?” I asked.
Remy cleared his throat. “Ricky. He’s gotten the Feds involved.”
“And that’s where the two of you step in?”
“Marco will handle the Feds. Looks like I’ll be handling the estate for Mrs. Cillian, seeing as . . . well, the circumstances have changed.”
Then Marco stepped closer, his voice dropping low enough that only we could hear. “Best not waste time, Remy. Valentina needs the details of her inheritance, and I suspect you don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Remy was just about to say his goodbyes when he lifted his attention to something behind me. I turned to find a tall shadow hovering over me.
It was . . . Max? Strange . . . I thought I killed that man a few weeks ago.
Bummer.
I suppose it was a good thing I was hearing from him. After all, it meant I hadn’t killed the poor guy. There wasn’t a pattern, which was a relief. I guess it was in my head—unless the world’s crankiest man was immune to the curse. That would be devastating.
“Ho-ly shit,” Remy said. “Max R—”
“Really great to see you,” Max interrupted quickly. He reached over me, extending his hand for Remy to shake.
His possessiveness still knew no bounds, it seemed.
“How funny, seeing you here of all places.”
Why is it funny?
Remy looked at him strangely, and Marco shook his head slowly, his eyes closed in disappointment. A muscle ticked in Marco’s jaw. He straightened his back and shot Remy a narrowed look.
“We have a meeting to go to,” Marco demanded, as if he were eager to leave the conversation.
“Right, Remy,” Max drawled. “Good seeing you.”
Both Marco and Remy stalked off, leaving me to deal with Max alone.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“What?” He blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Haven’t you met him before? Why is it strange you’re here?”
Max shrugged. “Probably because funerals aren’t my thing.”
“Really?” I laughed, the sound shocking him. “With the body count you rack up, I figured attending funerals was practically in the job description.” I leaned in a little closer. “Though maybe not as a mourner.”
He stayed silent, unamused.
“Don’t tell me the Reaper himself gets sentimental at funerals,” I tried to joke.
“The Reaper doesn’t attend funerals. He just does his job.”
Marco did, I thought to myself, my gaze falling to the ground innocently. On the way back up, I noticed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter tucked into the pocket of Max’s shirt. Then I noticed the smell. I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t noticed it before—I always did.
“Since when did you smoke?” I gave him a puzzled look.
“Since you got on my last nerve,” he replied, the corner of his lip twisted upward slightly.
“That’s a horrible addiction,” I scolded.
“It’s definitely not the worst one I have, Rosalie.”
“What’s the worst one?” The question escaped before I could rein it in.
I couldn’t help but look away from his stare.
I’d never felt someone’s eyes burn into mine the way Max’s did.
They gazed over my body, not missing a single inch of me.
I felt judged and admired at the same time—a feeling I couldn’t possibly know how to decipher.
It was the exact feeling that twisted my stomach.
Max didn’t respond—at least not with words. Instead he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette and his lighter. He held the cigarette between his fingers, the lighter’s flame sparking to life with a soft flick. I watched as he took a slow drag.
The smell of tobacco drifted toward me. Normally, the scent of cigarettes would make my nose wrinkle or my stomach churn. It was a smell that clung to clothes and hair, making it impossible to escape.
But here, with him, it was different—different in a way I couldn’t explain, even to myself. Somehow, I didn’t mind it. It suited him. I found myself liking the smell even as I tried to pretend otherwise.
In the distance, I saw Sean holding his key up in the air—a silent signal he was ready to take me home whenever I gave him the word. Max noticed. He lifted his hand to my elbow, tightening his grip reluctantly before leaving my side.
He never answered my question.