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“Cold, mistress?” Nikolai’s voice carried from the front.
“A little,” I said, staring at my fingers.
“Do you like music?” My gaze flitted to his, unsure of his game. His jade gaze stared back through the rearview mirror, eyes so much older than himself.
“Yes.”
“What would you like to listen to?” I frowned at his question. The car had always been quiet, not even the nameless, obsequious trill of classical music played. It was what I imagined death sounded like.
I used to like all kinds of music. Top 40. Classic rock. Indie. Now? I could barely remember the sound. I slowly shook my head. “Surprise me.” A melancholy, delirious melody engulfed the town car. The vibration was deep in my bones, echoing in my soul. The woman’s voice was rough, like she’d had too much whiskey.
She was asking someone to save her.
From herself.
Suddenly the song shut off and the car went back to static silence. Nikolai stepped out of the car and I brought my open palm up to my cheek, wiping away the hot tear just as the door opposite me opened. Ice-cold air rushed into the car with snowflakes finer than powdered sugar. The Beast slid in.
The car pulled away and even though he’d said nothing, I knew we were headed back to the penthouse.
“Is Gabby going to be okay?” I dared to ask.
He glanced up from the blue light of his phone. “Yes.”
“They believe me?” He blinked then looked back at his phone. I did my best to hide my glee, but I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching, so I grabbed my palm and dug my fingernail into the skin until all I knew was pain.
By the time we made it back to the penthouse sun was rising. I was so exhausted my eyelids were drooping of their own accord and yawns were arriving every other minute. I had never been so excited to see that fucking white painted door before, or the quilted bed.
Just as I did a swan dive into the sheets, Beast’s low rumble came from the door. “Get dressed, Frankie. You have a funeral to attend.” I groaned, pressing my forehead deeper into the pillows. Distantly I wondered if it was my own funeral. Could exhaustion kill?
“You only
have twenty minutes,” he continued. “Maybe you can think about whether or not she was worth it while you’re yawning through her husband’s funeral.” I heard his footfalls disappear and sat up on the bed. In that moment, I felt sad.
So I’d lost a night’s sleep.
Of course she was worth it.
She was worth many nights’ sleep, but he didn’t understand that, and that was tragic.
Thirty minutes later we were filing through wet snow and hoards of people in black. There were no colors visible that day. All the women were either wearing black hats or veils, so it was hard to identify Gabby.
There was some kind of order everyone had to stand in, so I paused, waiting for the Beast. He’d gone to talk to someone. This was my first real introduction into mafia life beyond the Beast and his men. It was pretty in line with what I’d experienced so far. All the men were savage yet well dressed, all their women missing something vital from themselves. I noticed one particular woman behind a veil crying really hard. I frowned, wondering who on earth could miss a toad like Giovani that much. Then I focused harder. Quickly glancing over to where the Beast was still talking, I discreetly walked over to the person.
“How are you doing that?” I whispered.
“What?” Gabby cried through her veil.
“Crying so hard.”
“Onions,” Gabby responded. “I keep rubbing them in my eyes.”
I whistled low. “Jesus.”
“I have a cover to maintain,” she explained. I snorted. When people looked in our direction, I wiped my nose, pretending it was tears. Beast caught my eye and I saw he was finished with whoever had distracted his attention.
I gave Gabby’s hand a squeeze and walked back to my jailor. We took our spots and as a light dusting of snow began to fall, the funeral started. It was actually quite beautiful—not the ceremony, but the way the white snow contrasted with the black garb of the attendees. I found myself staring at how pure it looked, and how dark everyone else looked, thinking it was pretty fitting.
The Beast was the only one with leeway to walk around, and he did. He left my side every few moments to talk with someone else. Halfway through the funeral, my eyes drooped. I was so tired and it was so boring. Maybe that was a terrible thing to say, but I held no sentiment for Giovani De Luca. He was a murderer and a wife beater; he was better off in the ground.
