40. Remy
REMY
I doas the old bat instructs and stay away for days despite how the retreat from Ollie makes my veins itch.
No physical contact is one thing. But no texts or phone calls is a cruel form of withdrawal I struggle to endure.
I’ve instructed everyone I know, numerous times, to keep me updated on Ollie’s movements and temperament as often as possible—Wesley, Lucy, Russo, and Valenti as well as Carlo’s temporary appointed staff.
I even bribed her grocery delivery driver to inform me if any concerning changes are made to her eating habits because even the slightest insight into her suffering is a balm to my guilt.
My only solace is that her two best friends barely leave her alone. They’re always at her house for hours on end. They bring food and coffee. I’m pretty sure they carried in a box of liquor, too.
And when they’re not there, Lesley takes their place.
I wake on my sofa the morning of Carlo’s funeral, in old gym shorts and not much else. Three empty bottles of Jack sit on my coffee table, along with a stack of take-out food containers.
Sobriety had been the plan at the start of the week. But as the days passed, intoxicated oblivion became the goal, and there’s no getting through today without backing up on the inebriation train.
I shove from the sofa and drag my ass to the kitchen in search of a fresh bottle of whiskey.
I rummage through the alcohol cabinet above the fridge when the whir of my private elevator alerts me to an unwanted visitor, the slide of the opening doors followed by the clap of heels.
I close my eyes and bow my head as a weary female sigh carries from behind me.
I’d recognize that judgmental tone anywhere.
“What are you doing here, Abri?” I turn to face my sister.
Her eyes widen as she takes me in.
Okay, so maybe I haven’t shaved in a while, and personal grooming hasn’t really been a priority, but that expression is overly dramatic.
“Actually, don’t answer that.” I pivot back to the liquor cupboard and reach into the far corner to claim the last bottle of Jack. “Whatever your reason, I’m not interested.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her heels continue to tap across the tile as she approaches the island counter. “But I didn’t endure drunken late-night phone calls and early morning D.C. traffic to take no for an answer. So hurry up and get dressed. We have a funeral to attend.”
I ignore her and crack the lid of the whiskey.
“Put the bottle down, Rem. You’re better than this.”
I turn to her with a derisive laugh. “I assure you I’m not.”
“Well, for today you’re going to pretend to be.” She shrugs. “By free will or force, I don’t care.”
I scowl, not only at the statement but her outfit. “Why are you wearing that?”
She’s dressed for a funeral. In all black. Conventional heels. Conservative dress.
“I guess you missed the first time I said it, so I’ll repeat it slowly—we have a funeral to attend.” She enunciates the words as if I’ve got a learning disability.
With the way her presence and appearance doesn’t make sense, I’m beginning to think I do.
“I’m pretty sure the person who killed the victim isn’t meant to attend the service, let alone his sister.” I raise the bottle of Jack toward my mouth.
She launches her black clutch at me, hitting me in the face before I can take a mouthful.
“Fuck.” My head flings back on impact, the smack of pain striking the bridge of my nose. “What the fucking hell, Abri?”
The clutch falls to the floor, skittering across the tiles.
She bats her lashes. “Sorry, I should’ve calmly advised you how pathetic it is to be drinking before noon on a weekday, but you seem a little slow this morning. Shock therapy felt like the better option.”
I rub a hand over my nose. “Do I need to call security?”
She barks a laugh. “I don’t think Bishop would approve of me being escorted from the building.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate it more than having you thrown out the window, which is what I’m currently contemplating.”
She sighs, her pristine posture slumping. “Rem, come on. You loved that man. And I’m pretty sure you loved his daughter, too. So you’re going to that funeral. You need to pay your respects.”
The throb across my face descends into my chest.
My love for both of them hasn’t changed tense just because Carlo is dead. The emotion is still present. Not in the past. If anything, it’s more adamant now than it ever was.
Abri rounds the island counter and gently takes the liquor bottle from me. “You need to say goodbye.”
I scrunch my nose, fucking despising the thought. “And you need to go back to D.C. and mind your own business.”
“I understand you’re hungover, so I’m going to say this one more time with a little more context, just because God knows you’re acting like you have half a brain right now.” Her brow furrows in pity. “Bishop is currently double-parked out front. Matthew and Layla are in the car. We’re all going to the funeral. That means Salvo and Lorenzo, too. And Valenti and Russo. Carlo was part of the family, and we support our own.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, the sting from her accessory abuse increasing instead of lessening. “She wouldn’t want me there.”
“Yes, she would. You’ve shared stories about her for months. I know what type of woman she is, and how much she cares about you.”
“You don’t know shit.” I slam my palms down on the counter.
“No?” She cocks her head, undaunted. “I know you blame yourself. I know you’re drinking to ease your pain. And I know that man was like the mentally stable father you never had.”
“Get out, Abri.” I growl.
“Sweetie.” She gives a condescending smile and places the bottle on the counter. “Did you hear the part where I said Bishop is double-parked? If you make him wait much longer this uncomfortable conversation is going to be the least of your problems.”
“You’re threatening me with your husband?”
“Whatever works. But you know as well as I do that once he gets out of the car you’ll be attending that funeral whether you like it or not. Probably whether you’re conscious or not.”
I glare.
I glare so fucking hard.
“Come on, Rem. This is important.”
“Do you think I don’t fucking know that?” I throw my arms out at my sides. “She fucking hates me, Abri. She knows I took her dad from her.”
“Deep down I’m pretty sure you know that’s not true. I get that you want to punish yourself—I’ve spent my fair share of months doing the same type of thing due to my own trauma. But you gave him pento, brother—you didn’t make him take it.”
“He was?—”
“Utt.” She raises a finger, imperious as she cuts me off. “We can do a deep dive on this later. I can even call my shrink and make you a virtual appointment?—”
“I don’t need a shrink, Abri.”
“Let’s agree to disagree. But for now, you need to go get ready. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Nope.
Not going to happen.
Even if I didn’t have a million reasons not to attend, it would take longer than fifteen minutes to shave my way out of looking like a yeti.
The family can all go without me.
Her clutch vibrates from its discarded place on the floor.
“You’re running out of time.” Abri holds up her arm, showing her watch that’s illuminated with what I assume is a text. “Bishop just asked, ‘Is that cock stain getting ready or do I need to make an appearance?’” She lowers her arm. “How would you like to proceed?”
“I’m not going.” I’ll die on this hill.
“So you’re going to leave Ollie to handle Lorenzo and Salvatore on her own?”
Anger thrums through my limbs.
“My understanding was that she didn’t feel comfortable around those two?” Abri wields the question with subtle satisfaction. “You know just as well as I do that Salvo won’t be able to resist stirring the pot.”
I open my mouth about to claim he won’t, but there’s no fucking denying he will. “I hate you.”
She smiles. “Yes, and I’m sure I’ll have sleepless nights until you love me again. But while we wait for that to happen, you need to go get ready.”
I eye the whiskey bottle on the counter.
“Don’t even think about it.” She snatches at the alcohol and drags it behind her back. “I’ll text Bishop while you’re gone and let him know you’re following the script.”
I grind my molars as I stalk from the kitchen.
“Don’t forget that shaving is the most important part,” she calls after me. “Rugged looks more like homelessness on you.”
It takes more than fifteen minutes to create some semblance of respectability, the forced shave, shower, and dress routine leaving me with a permanently embedded scowl.
The car ride toward the suburbs is painful as Matthew and Abri take turns making fun of me, the childhood trauma response not seeming as therapeutic as it once was.
As soon as we arrive at the funeral home, I slide out of the car and disappear into the inky sea of morbidly dressed mourners.
I search for Ollie despite every effort not to, but neither her nor her friends are anywhere to be seen.
“She’s in her prep room.” Wesley approaches to stand beside me. “I assume you’re looking for Olivia.”
I suppress a cringe, not appreciating my easily read thoughts. “How is she?”
“Enviably composed despite looking dead on her feet. Ivy and Allison are adamant she still hasn’t cried, so they’re worried. Justifiably.”
That makes three of us.
If she’s not crying, she’s purging.
He steps closer. “I also don’t know if it’s cause for concern, but the guy I took over from—the one that left on bad terms—he’s here.”
I scan the crowd with more intent, trying to get eyes on Hugo. “Has he said anything to anyone?”
“No. He seems to be laying relatively low.”
“Let me know if he becomes an issue.”
“I will.” He checks his watch and then focuses on the mourners making their way into the chapel. “I better check to make sure everything is in order for the service. I’ll talk to you later.”
I jerk my chin, remaining on the outskirts of the slowly moving crowd, the exodus giving view to Lorenzo, Salvo, and my men who wait near the side of the doors.
My uncle welcomes people as they pass, forever the charismatic businessman as he leans against his cane.
“Come on.” Matthew walks past me with Layla by his side. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
I sigh and eye the parking lot.
“It’s too late to run,” he mutters. “I’ll give chase, and we both know I’ll catch you.”
“Matthew,” Layla chastises. “Don’t taunt him.”
My brother wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her close into his side. “It’s what we do, la mia stella polare.” He steers her toward the building.
I follow begrudgingly, my eyes shooting daggers into the back of his head.
My family are the last of the crowd to enter the function room, Lorenzo leading the way, Valenti and Russo a step behind, while my siblings gather around me in support that I don’t want or need.
We remain standing, taking our place at the back of the chapel in an act of fortitude and protection to the grieving. It’s Lorenzo’s weird take on family tradition, and right now, it beats sitting next to someone who’s likely to sob and snivel their way through the proceedings.
I slide my fingers into my pockets, curling my hands into fists at the sight of the closed mahogany casket at the front of the room, the overhead lights beaming down on the shiny exterior with an ethereal glow.
Painfully melancholy music plays softly from overhead speakers as people chat quietly amongst themselves, waiting for Ollie to arrive.
“So this girl of yours…” Matthew bumps me with his shoulder. “I’m picturing full-blown Goth. Black hair. Dark makeup. Maybe a septum piercing.”
“You’re well off the mark,” I mutter, wishing he’d ditch his role as distraction connoisseur. “I suggest you quit talking about her while you still have a fully functioning trachea.”
“You can call this payback for how you acted when I got involved with Layla.”
“How I acted?” I scoff. “I welcomed her to the family with open arms.”
“Your welcome involved a gun being held against her fucking head.” His tone gains a lethal edge.
“And I’ll do it again if you don’t stop pissing me off.”
His chuckle is sinister. “That reminds me—I still haven’t killed you for the transgression.”
“Well, we’re at the right place for disposal, so go ahead. I’m game.”
“I’m not going to attack when you’re acting like a sad sack and fucking begging for it, dickwad. But don’t worry—I’ll return the warm welcome.”
“You already fucking stabbed me,” I mutter.
“Mmm.” He nods. “And I can still remember the feel of my blade slicing through your thigh. It’s the stuff of wet dreams.”
“You’re sick.”
“And you’re pathetic. Get over yourself and reclaim your woman before someone else does.”
Layla leans around him, placing a calming hand on his chest as she meets my gaze. “If you need tips on how to grovel, your brother could give lessons. He’s had enough experience to be a pro.”
“Hey.” Matthew palms her wrist and gently raises her knuckles to his lips. “Don’t share state secrets, la mia ossessione.”
She breathes a faint chuckle, her gaze turning doe-eyed as she stares at him. Great. Just what I fucking need—a cameo from the honeymoon phase.
“Take that shit somewhere else.” I glare. “We’re in a place of mourning.”
The room falls quiet, the shift of attention moving to Allison and Ivy who enter the room, heads downcast, tissues in hand.
Ollie is a step behind, walking fearlessly on her own in her black knee-length pencil skirt, blouse, and blazer, her head high, her shoulders straight.
I stand taller, trying to gain a glimpse of her necklace. To see if she hates me enough to quit wearing my ring. But her collar is too high.
“Is she the bombshell in the front or the one at the back?” Matthew whispers.
“Shut the fuck up,” I rage-whisper back.
The attention of numerous mourners shifts our way. Ivy glances up too, her bloodshot eyes widening in horror as she takes in my family line on her approach.
She knows who we are.
Fucking mint.
Her attention stops somewhere to my left, her eyes hardening, her horror turning to animosity.
I lean back to determine who she’s fixated on and find Salvatore leering back at her with a menacing smirk.
They know each other?
Ivy scrunches her tissues in a tight fist and snaps her gaze back to the floor as she passes us, her spine ramrod, her anger obvious.
Then it’s Ollie who steals my attention, her watery gaze meeting mine.
Time stops. My pulse and thoughts jump ship, too.
It’s silent. Just me and her. Nothing but pain stands between us.
Her saddened composure fractures, her brow furrowing, her lower lip trembling. She stares at me in sorrow. In regret. Then she casts her gaze away, blinking rapidly as she plasters a hand over her stomach and continues down the aisle.
I glare through my desperation to follow her and dig my nails into my palms.
“She looks beautiful today, Remy,” Abri murmurs. “And it’s clear she still loves you.”
I keep glaring. Keep digging.
Ollie and her friends reach the front row where they’re greeted by a male celebrant. The women claim their seats. Then the celebrant takes his place in front of the wooden podium and greets everyone with a forlorn smile.
“Good afternoon, family and friends. We’re gathered here today…”
I ignore the speech and stare at the braid exquisitely curled around the back of Ollie’s head, feeling every time her shoulders hitch as if her sniffs are my own.
“…let us come together in love and support of one another…”
The words drone on, their weight meaningless when pitted against the memories of a man who showed me more fatherly guidance in twelve months than my father did in my entire life.
Carlo gave me his time, even given the little he had left. He trusted me with the one remaining family member he had. The woman he cherished the most.
“…I’d now like to share a reading that Carlo himself chose to be read before his passing. Death is Nothing At All, by Henry Scott Holland.”
I lower my gaze to my loafers, struggling to withstand the emotional onslaught pulsing through the room. “…Call me by my old familiar name…” Struggling to face the loss after already losing Flynn. “…Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together…”
They both deserved better. Flynn and Carlo. Ollie and even me.
What the fuck did I do to deserve an upbringing sponsored by malice and psychotic oppression? What did any of my siblings do?
“…I’m waiting for you…”
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.
Jesus Christ, Carlo. Could you have picked a more painful reading?
Abri’s hand glides over my wrist, her fingers squeezing.
I bear my way through it—the reading, the continued diatribe from the celebrant, the sobs, and sniffs, and sorrow.
Then the celebrant moves away from the podium and Ollie gracefully takes his place.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I swipe a rough hand over my mouth, my chin, my neck. I deliberately dig my rings into my skin, distracting myself from the internal misery with the external torment.
Pull it together, you fucking piece of shit.
Her face remains unstained from tears.
She hasn’t broken. Not yet. But the fissures of instability show in her hitched breathing and the growing paleness of her complexion.
She raises her gaze to the room, her eyes meeting mine. I hold my breath, the air burning in my lungs as the kaleidoscope of her emotions morphs.
There’s desperation. Emptiness. Betrayal. Even a glimpse of acceptance.
The longer she stares, the more I see.
Fear. Hopelessness. Loss. Maybe even longing.
Then she winces and glances back down at her podium.
“You’ve got this.” Abri squeezes my wrist again.
I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have intruded.
I eye the exit and contemplate leaving for the sake of giving Ollie a few untainted moments to celebrate her father without me messing them up.
I shift, about to make an escape only to have Matthew counter my movement.
“Stay,” he grates. “If she can endure this, so can you.”
I huff a callous breath. “She doesn’t want me here.”
“I disagree, and the older sibling is always right. So shut up and listen to her eulogy.”
“Please, Remy,” Abri begs, not letting go of my wrist.
“My father was an incredible man.” Ollie’s voice drifts softly through the speakers, the tremble in her words the worst form of audible torture.
If I don’t go, I don’t know how I’m going to stop myself from going to her.
She needs to be held. She needs someone to help break down her fucking walls and let her goddamn grieve.
“I’m warning you,” Matthew growls as Ollie describes her father’s childhood. “If you make a move for the door I’ll land the hardest NFL tackle you’ve ever seen, then Bishop will cable tie your hands and feet?—”
“With pleasure,” Bishop mutters beside Abri. “I’ve always got them on hand.”
“—Then we’ll place you next to Old Mother Hubbard in the second back row.” Matthew jerks his chin to the crowd. “Because she looks like she wants to kick your ass more than I do.”
I glance to the row he’s referenced, finding the old woman in question. Fucking Lesley.
I sigh and return my attention to the podium despite the ache it brings.
“He had a way of turning things around,” Ollie says with heartfelt poise. “He helped those who grieved to celebrate a life instead of focusing on their loss.” This time when she raises her gaze, she stares at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “He always seemed to find the light in the dark. In situations, as well as in people.”
Jesus Christ.
She’s talking about me.
“He tended to be conservative, but at times he liked to mix things up with a radical decision or two. He was fun, yet professional to a fault. And he loved with all of his heart. Always.” She dabs her nose with a tissue. “My mother once claimed my father was the epitome of devotion and selfless sacrifice. Actually, it was a lecture she gave early one Saturday morning,” Ollie continues in a lighter tone. “All I’d wanted to do was watch television but Mom kept nagging me to pick up the dirty clothes I’d left lying around. She told me Dad deserved a clean home after the long hours he’d worked all week. Then she went on to relay an extensive list of all the recent sacrifices he’d made.”
She sniffs. “I wish I could remember even one of the sacrifices she mentioned, but in my defense, I was twelve, and the new season of Brooklyn Nine-Nine had been released, and anything outside of watching that show was static I didn’t want to hear.”
Abri chuckles, along with numerous other attendants throughout the room.
“But I get it now.” Ollie pauses, dragging in a shaky breath before letting it out slowly. “It took my father’s death for me to scrutinize his actions and find the multitude of sacrificial gems he left behind.” Her shoulders curl and she wraps her arms around her waist, tormenting me with the distance between us. “I wish I could thank him for being my father, my mentor, and my greatest inspiration. And one day, I know I will. But until then—” She sucks in a sharp breath. “—take care, Dad, and give Mom a hug for me.”
“Damn,” Salvatore groans. “That was rough.”
“Fucking brutal,” Matthew adds.
“She’s a strong woman.” Abri’s voice is barely audible as Ollie leaves center stage to reclaim her seat.
There’s a moment of reflection where a fucking torturous a cappella version of “Hallelujah” fills the room while a montage of images are plastered onto an overhead screen above the podium. Ones of Carlo. Of him and Ollie. Then him with his wife. There are group photos. Those with what I assume are friends or colleagues.
Then the breath gets punched from my lungs when an image of me flicks on screen. One that must’ve been taken at Berkeley Springs without my knowledge.
We stand side by side on the deck of the vacation house, Carlo’s hand on my shoulder, his fatherly eyes staring back at me.
It was when he’d asked me about my interest in Ollie.
Fuck.
I lower my gaze and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Goddamn you, Ollie.
Why include me? Why make me a part of this when it must have hurt her to acknowledge any role I’ve played in her father’s life?
I keep my focus on the floor for the remainder of the song. I don’t raise it for the entire conclusion of the ceremony. Not even when guests pass to exit the chapel.
I’m done.
Cooked.
Fucking fried.
Matthew leans close. “Do you remember when we were little and you wanted to ride your bike over the dirt jumps me and Salvo built in the back field, but it was already past your bedtime and Dad told you no?”
I raise my gaze with a scowl. “Yeah. Why?”
“Do you also remember how you did it anyway and bit the dust so hard you got a concussion and your face looked like a mangled piece of day-old meat?”
I scowl harder. “Yes, Matthew, I remember. Why the fuck are you asking?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Was just thinking about it. It’s a great memory.”
Salvo, Bishop, and Abri chuckle. The rest of the entourage smirk.
“Get the fuck outta here.” I jut my chin at the door. “Mom should’ve swallowed you.”
He barks a laugh. “Well, she’s certainly the type to eat her young.”