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Dominic.
He’s on the other side of the aisle, sitting next to an older couple—his parents, maybe?
My pulse jumps, adrenaline flooding my bloodstream as my body prepares for a fight that won’t come. Violence isn’t permitted right now. I know that logically, but the animal part of me looks at Dominic and sees only a threat.
The last time I saw him, he aimed a gun at Ryland. He almost shot Ryland, and it’s impossible for me to think of anything else as I stare at his angular face.
Theo rests a hand on my knee, probably feeling the discomfort pouring out of me. I force myself to draw in a shaky breath as I drag my gaze away from Dominic, sweeping it over the rest of the crowd.
“Michael and Gabriel,” Theo murmurs, inclining his head toward two other men who sit in the middle of the crowd. They’re the ones he said belong to mafia families, and both have dark hair and dour looks.
“And Victoria.” Ryland’s voice is a low rumble, heavy with dislike. I turn my head, my gaze following his.
The woman sitting several rows ahead of us has auburn hair that’s caught in a half-updo. Several long strands tumble down around her shoulders, and when she turns to survey the crowd herself, I get a glimpse of her profile. She has a long, elegant neck, a perfectly straight nose, and high cheekbones. Her face is stunning, honestly, but there’s something cold about her that gives a sharpness to her features. Like she’s been carefully carved out of ice.
“She’s the only woman competing to be Luca’s successor,” Theo tells me quietly.
My eyes widen a little, and I examine the woman more closely. She’s probably not more than a few years older than me, maybe twenty-five at the most. But I wonder if she ever looked childlike or innocent, even when she was an actual child.
Music begins to play, stealing my attention away from Victoria. The song continues as the last several people make their way to their seats, and when it stops, a priest steps up to the lectern on the raised dais.
“Ladies and gentleman, friends and family, thank you for being here with us tod
ay as we celebrate the life and mourn the death of Marcus Evan Constantine. He is survived by his loving parents, Norah and Gideon, and although he is no longer with us, his memory will endure in our hearts.”
At the mention of Marcus’s parents, I scan the crowd again. When I see them, I freeze. They’re up at the front, sitting on the other side of the aisle. I can only make out their profiles, but I can see the family resemblance between them and their son—particularly Gideon Constantine. The strong lines of his face and the set of his jaw reminds me so much of Marcus that my chest constricts painfully.
They’re both sitting rigid and still, their gazes fixed on the priest at the front. Neither of them are crying, and a sudden blinding rush of fury fills me.
They did this.
They condemned their son to death.
They should be wailing, sobbing, beating their chests and tearing their hair. They should be begging for forgiveness—from god or the devil or whoever might grant them absolution.
I know heartbreak isn’t always visible on the outside, but in this moment, I desperately want theirs to be. I want to know that Marcus’s loss has destroyed them. I want to know that they’re fucking sorry.
Gideon’s brown hair blurs in my vision, his features going out of focus as tears well in my eyes. My hand is barely recovered from the last time I punched someone, but I feel my fingers curl into a fist, clenching so tightly that my nails dig into my palm.
A large hand settles over mine, and I jerk slightly, pulled out of my thoughts. When I look over at Ryland, his jaw is set so tightly that the muscles in the side of his face bulge. Tears track in a silent stream down his face, slipping off his chin to disappear into the black fabric of his suit.
Something about witnessing his pain brings my own pain closer to the surface, and I close my eyes as the priest goes on with his eulogy.
The words the priest is saying mean little to me. The life he’s describing, the picture he’s painting, doesn’t fit what I know of Marcus’s life. There’s no mention of the game, no mention of the night he almost died two and a half years ago. It’s a sterilized, curated version of his life.
It’s not real.
Anger churns inside me, and to keep myself from leaping to my feet and screaming at the entire crowd, calling them out as hypocrites, liars, and murderers, I focus on the feel of Ryland’s hand over mine. On the warmth of Theo’s arm as it brushes against mine.
The feel of them sitting beside me doesn’t lessen my anger, but it sharpens it.
Focuses it.
Marcus’s parents signed him up to play Luca’s deadly game. They gambled their son’s life on a shot at incredible power, and they lost.
I won’t let the same thing happen to Ryland and Theo.
Chapter 10
