Page 15 of Salvatore

Dread edges its way into my chest. Dread that has no business being there. I knew the funeral home owner was on a fast track to death’s door, but this is far sooner than anticipated.

His demise will bring inconveniences.

Complications.

Not to mention my younger brother’s devastation. Unlike Remy, I knew better than to let down my guard to another father figure. Once bitten and all that.But my brother will grieve the loss.

“Where’s Remy?” I demand.

“Already at the funeral home.” Russo winces. “With Olivia. They left not too long ago.”

Am I surprised my brother’s priorities are with the woman who’s caused more nuisance than she’s worth? No. His love-struck idiocy knows no bounds. But for him not to call to inform me of the news? Not to even text?

“Understood,” I bark in the universal fuck-off tone. “Now get the hell out of my face.”

4

IVY

ONE WEEK LATER

Carlo died.

Just like that.

Completely out of the blue.

Yes, he’d been sick and chemo hadn’t been kind, but while I’d been out living it up—lip-locked with a criminal—he’ddied.

He’s gone.

I’m never going to see him again.

“Are you okay?” Allison sidles up beside me in front of her reception desk, the murmur of voices of those mourning Carlo’s loss carrying from the chapel at the front of the funeral home.

I nod even though I feel exactly the opposite.

“Liv’s using the bathroom, then she said she’s ready to get things moving.” Allison runs a soothing hand across the shoulders of my conservative black funeral dress. “This will all be over soon.”

Ishould be the one comfortingher.

I’m older—twenty-eight to her twenty-four—but Carlo’s death has thrown me. It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with losing people. Death hasn’t just been a career choice. I’ve literally lost everyone, either to the afterlife or circumstance, yet the prospectof sitting through my employer’s funeral makes my entire body cold.

A door squeaks down the hall. Footsteps follow.

I turn in time to see Olivia enter the reception area, her posture strong, her expression blank.

“I’m ready,” she announces.

I wince at her performance.

She hasn’t cried yet. It’s been a week and I’m one hundred percent positive not one tear has been shed. I get it, though. From a young age she was taught to hide her sadness in front of those grieving due to the family business. I guess the habit stuck a little too hard.

I, on the other hand, look like a rabid clown with how bloodshot my eyes are from days of crying.

“Are you sure?” I give her a sad smile as I approach. “We can wait a few more minutes if?—”

“I’m sure.”

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