Page 6 of The Mafia's Bride
I stand looking at the casket, the dirt crumpling in along the edges. There’s a piece of me that knows I should say goodbye—this will be my last chance to do so. But I can’t bring myself to do it. He was a monster and he never truly cared for me.
So instead, I drop the flower beside my feet, ignore Collins’ worried gaze and hurry into the waiting warm car. Ferguson doesn’t deserve a goodbye.
2
SLOANE
The Wharf is a building that Code Enforcement forgot about and where all the bad men like to drink. It’s one of our businesses, though what we do here, I couldn’t tell you. Most of the bad men met here, the kids my father used to run drugs took refuge here after their shifts. Currently, it’s being used for my father’s celebration of life, where made men from all the various fractions have come together to pay respects to a leader gone.
Ironic, since most of the men here hated him.
It’s nothing more than a tactic to judge the new leadership. Namely, Maeve.
Holding the heavy glass tumbler to my mouth, I look into the overhead mirror, locating my oldest sister by the back entrance. More men in wool caps and grey hair surround her, all harshly spewing words into her face. But she doesn’t react.
Whatever they’re telling her, she’s unaffected.
I take a large gulp, the liquor burning its way down my throat and snapping me back to the bar, where chaos swirls around me. My cousin Meghan moves with practiced ease, slinging beers and pouring shots without missing a beat.
Pressing my red nose into the empty glass, I inhale the rich amberand citrus scents of the old whiskey. Whiskey Pops used to drink and would never give me a drop.
This is my final fuck you to the man.
I gesture to Meghan for a refill, listening to the booming laughs and old Irish shanties around me. It’s a jovial crowd, people celebrating when normal people would be mourning. People like my older sister, Collins, in a group of old ladies, all cousins, patting her arm as if to say ‘there, there.’
Of course, they’re worried about the perfect sister. No one bothers to check on the screw-up of the family.
The whiskey flows, halting my thoughts. I’ve got to be three deep by now, but I’ve lost count. The warmth, the buzz is slowly unraveling inside my stomach, highlighting a devious pink along my cheeks and neck.
Meg opens her mouth—to offer condolences, to check on me, I’m not sure—but I cut her off, waving her kind sympathy away. I don’t want it. I’m not sorry Ferguson is dead. I just feel nothing, and I need more booze to keep the buzz going, to feel as if I matter.
Most of the people here don’t care Ferguson is dead. Most want a piece of his empire, want what my father and sister built from the ground up. No one will miss the ruthless clan Captain, nor will they shed tears for him. I’m in good company.
Turning in my stool, I scan the bar, taking in the dingy blue slate tile floor and chipped black stained bar. The crowd behind me is still surging through the door from the wet outside, a gust of cold air nipping at my cheeks.
Gradually, that buzz turns into a hard ringing in my head, the expensive whiskey running in my veins, muddling my thoughts. Everything falls away, and I lean into it, head tilting back as I just enjoy the calm the drink brings.
This is why I party, taking drugs and alcohol until the room blurs. It heightens my mind, turns all the bad thoughts off and instead of feeling numb, I get to feel that buzz and euphoria. It ends the loneliness; it allows me to smile and justbe.
A warm body slips onto the barstool beside me, pulling my attentionfrom the soft hum of liquor in my veins. He brings with him a blistering heat that has my nerves tingling with awareness, fighting off the buzz. The soft smells of cashmere, spice and the hint of bourbon waft over me and I inhale greedily.
He smells like sin and that’s exactly the type of person I could lose myself in, really amp up the distraction I need to escape reality.
He chuckles with Meghan, his rumbling voice asking for another. My body heats with delight, the voice accented and deep. It’s the kind of voice women drop to their knees for.
I turn subtly, letting my gaze drift over his wavy dark hair, the strands curling just beneath his ears in effortless disarray, then to the sharp cut of his rain-slicked cheekbones. His jaw is unshaven, a dusting of dark hair that accentuates the firm lines. As he speaks, his eyes flutter, the lashes thick framing deep amber-brown orbs that reminds me of the bourbon he’s sipping. So lively, they look to ignite with his laughter or darken with his thought.
This is a man who could sway the burliest of men to do his bidding, all with one look.
I watch as he takes the glass, lifting the rim to his full, feminine lips, pale pink tongue darting out to taste the bourbon, vanilla and caramel drifting between us. He savors it, allows it to sit on his tongue, soak into his mouth, before he swallows a large gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I blink, transfixed. What I wouldn’t give to be that liquor, tasted, devoured with reverence.
He drops the glass with a heavy thud, his leather gloves gripping the edge of the bar. My brows furrow, trying to understand the meaning. Wearing gloves isn’t unheard of in Boston, but inside? Odd fashion choice.
I lean against the bar, back arching as he looks down at the glass. If I cared about such things, I’d almost think he looks lost. He’s searching the glass for an answer it can’t give him.
Thankfully, he’s distracted enough for me to take in his body. Black, tailored suit, all designer by the stitching and cut. He has a pairof polished Dior shoes and a simple Vacheron Constantin on his wrist. He’s dressed well enough to show he has money, but nothing that flaunts it. A stark contrast to what my father wore, or forced us to wear.
