Chapter 5
five
The sky begins to darken as the hour grows late. Storm clouds threaten to drop rain on those who have come to pay their respects at the gravesite. The days are growing colder, the forecast taking a turn for the worse as the briskness of fall fades into an icy winter.
I know this day is coming the moment Christian so callously informs me of Elias’s death.
Standing over the closed casket of the man I once called father, I hug my jacket closer to my body, staving off the chill of the winter wind that bites viciously into my exposed skin.
The gazes of the men around us drift between Christian and me, their faces a mix of anger and confusion as they take in my position at his side.
Some of them know who I am. Their places in Elias’s inner circle grant them privileged information not available to the masses. The others—well, the only thing they know about me is I’ve been stolen from Matthias. None of them know me as Elias’s fake daughter.
To them, I’m just a spoil of war. An enemy. Someone close to the man they believe responsible for their leader’s death, as well as his daughter’s.
I didn’t think Christian would allow me to accompany him. It’s a risk to have me out in the open. But now that I’m here, I know exactly why he’s brought me.
A power play.
He’s telling the Famiglia he has me on a tight leash. That I’m where I belong.
Under his control.
God knows he doesn’t deserve my tears. Hell, he doesn’t even deserve this funeral. No, my unshed tears are for Libby, whose own closed casket lies next to his, completely identical, from the solid cherry poplar wood exterior down to the plush red velvet interior in a French fold design.
It’s sickening.
Libby always said she wanted to be cremated and spread out on a cliff where the wind could take her on a new adventure. Instead, my little sister will be buried next to a monster.
The thought of her being laid to rest here, with the likes of him, breaks my heart.
Her death, I know, isn’t my fault. The burden of it shouldn’t weigh down my soul.
But it does. Christian’s perverted obsession with me is what ultimately led to her execution.
There’s a small moment, just one second in time, when I pray I’m wrong.
That what I saw at the wedding is part of the ultimate plan and maybe, just maybe, she isn’t really gone.
I should know better than to pray to a god who never listens.
The bitter truth of her death is laid before my eyes, and all I feel is the intense urge to gut Christian and his men from stem to stern.
To paint the town red with their blood.
To make everyone understand my pain.
They’ll get theirs. I’ll make sure of that.
Father Bianchi recites his prayers, but the words are nothing more than rushing water through my mind as I pull my attention away from the monotony of his useless eulogy.
I let my gaze wander over the graveyard, taking in the attendees with rapt attention.
If there’s one thing Elias taught me, it’s that information is power.
The more of it you have, the more power you have over people—the more you can manipulate them. Play them like pawns on a chessboard. A ready sacrifice.
The problem? People are unpredictable, easy to shift alliances at a moment’s notice. Elias once had power over many of the men here. He even had power over Christian. Look where that got him.
Murdered by his own son.
Most of the people in attendance are made men. A few attend with their wives by their sides. Children are strictly prohibited.
Neil is nowhere to be found, and neither is Archer. Their absences don’t put me at ease though. They’re the only two people who’ve been able to temper Christian’s rage.
I wince, the pounding in my skull that had finally started to ebb shooting back to the forefront of my mind as I think about the last time Christian lost control. If not for Neil and Archer, I’d most likely have been beaten to death.
Another reason people are staring.
My face and neck look like a Picasso painting of black and blue. That’s just the part people can see. The skin beneath my dress is worse.
Eyeing Kendra, I let my thoughts shift away from the past and back to the present.
Elias’s widow stands on the other side of her husband’s grave, the picture of the perfect Italian wife in mourning.
Her long raven dress is fit more for a Paris fashion show than a funeral.
Her face is partially masked by a thin black lace veil, and every now and again, she brings her white handkerchief up to wipe at her dry eyes.
Oscar-worthy performance, in my opinion.
Standing stoically next to her, his youthful face pinched in irritation, his hand around her too-thin waist, is Dante Romano, the man I grew up believing to be my uncle.
His dark eyes narrow at his brother’s casket as it’s slowly lowered into the ground. I’ve never seen him so on edge before. There’s a perplexing look behind the anger, and I can almost see the gears in his head whirling and spinning. I wonder if he knows that his brother’s killer stands among them.
Has he been in on Christian’s plan?
Plotted his kin’s demise?
I want to believe he wouldn’t. He’s the one who created the code La famiglia non uccide la famiglia. Family doesn’t kill family.
It’s the look of fleeting sadness that paints itself across his face as his gaze lands on Libby’s casket that puzzles me.
I’ve never seen him show much affection to either of the twins.
Oftentimes, he’s gone out of his way to avoid them.
The twins were born a year after his wife’s death.
Luisa died during the birth of their firstborn, Luca.
I always attributed his violence to the sadness surrounding him, constantly being reminded of Luisa’s death.
Kenzi was named after her.
Then again, he should be deflated; she was his niece.
She was also Christian’s sister, and that hadn’t stopped him from having someone put a bullet in her head.
“The loss of life in the Ward family is a tragedy. It’s always sad when death takes one so young and another before his time is truly finished,” the priest drones on. “We hope justice finds whoever took them from us so early.”
“Could take justice right now if they knew the killer was right here,” I mutter under my breath, not expecting anyone to hear me. Christian’s sudden bruising grip on my already tender side tells me he does.
“I’d keep quiet if I were you, Avaleigh.” He leans down to whisper in my ear. “Or I’ll happily repeat our session from the other day if you want to disobey.”
Cowed by the thought of another beating, I meekly nod my head. Inside, I’m seething, my blood boiling as he keeps his grip firm, his fingers digging into my tender skin without restraint.
“…In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti,” the priest finishes, his free hand making the sign of the cross above each casket as they finish being lowered into their final resting places.
A whisper of amens rises among the attendees, including my own.
Pressure builds behind my eyes, tears threatening to fracture like fragile ornamental glass, shattering into millions of tiny pieces.
But the last thing I want to do is cry in front of these people, the ones who have done nothing but lie and beat me down.
“Let’s go,” Christian huffs impatiently as he leads me from the graveside.
I don’t push him; he’s already on edge at having been forced to attend the funeral of the people he’s murdered in cold blood.
Instead, I follow him obediently, weaving through the small crowd until he stops abruptly at the sound of someone calling his name.
Cursing, he turns to face his uncle, who’s silently approached us, leaving Kendra to mingle with the other wives.
“Dante.” Christian’s tone is informal, if not a bit biting, and I see his uncle’s eyes narrow at the informality. No one speaks to the Don that way. Not even family. “What can I do for you?”
Dante’s gaze momentarily shifts to me, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight that is my face, before pulling back to Christian. “A few of the men want to talk to you about our next step.”
Christian snorts derisively. “I don’t need to discuss anything with them.
” His upper lip twists in disgust at the thought.
That’s the problem with Christian, he doesn’t play well with others, especially those he thinks are beneath him.
He’s entitled. A trait Elias unfortunately encouraged through the years.
“My men’s job is to follow my orders. Not question them or discuss them. That’s it.”
“They aren’t your men, Christian,” Dante reminds him with a snarl. “They’re my men, and if you don’t discuss with them our next steps, they won’t be following your orders much longer. Understood?”
His nephew’s shoulders stiffen at the obvious rebuke.
I listen carefully; my eyes trained on the ground as I attempt to make myself appear small.
Christian isn’t much different from his father when it comes to his views on women, or me.
He either thinks I’m too dumb to comprehend the conversations, or his pride won’t allow him to believe I’d ever get away and use that knowledge.
The latter thinking is what got Elias into trouble in the first place.
Never underestimate a woman scorned.
I stand aside as the two men bat words back and forth like ping-pong balls for several moments, their words becoming heated, before Christian finally huffs out a colorful curse, tugging on my arm sharply.
“No need for the girl to hear all that,” Dante tells him. “I’ll stay with her while you tell my men our plans.”
Sure. Just poke the bear, why don’t you?
Christian shoots his uncle a scathing glare before he lets go of his unforgiving grip on my arm and stomps off toward the group of men waiting none too patiently near Elias’s fresh grave.