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That threw me. “Um… I don’t know.”
We were lapsed Catholics. My Scottish grandparents had been churchgoers but it stopped there.
“Do you want a priest?” I asked.
“He’s been.”
“He heard your confessions?”
“Nothing to confess.” He struggled to speak.
I took a deep breath. “I love you, Dad” left my lips, and a lump formed in my throat.
He squeezed my hand. “Get rid of Tammy. Marry Britney.”
“I’m marrying Miranda. The Peace name will shine again from good deeds and hard work.”
He gestured for me to come closer.
“Geneva only happens if you marry Britney,” he whispered.
I kissed his cheek but didn’t answer.
“I will see Brent soon. My boy.” He touched my hand, then he fell back and died.
I covered my eyes, and tears of frustration soaked my palms. He’d been so tied up in himself that he couldn’t whisper a final testimony of love for me, his remaining son.
The funeral, a week after my father’s passing, was held at the same gothic church that my grandparents frequented and where, as boys, Brent and I had taken our communion.
The guests had congregated outside, and I was staggered by how many people had turned up. All the investors that had harangued me for their money, including Varela, were there.
The mafia don came up to me and kissed me on both cheeks. “My commiserations.” His resonant accent hit me in the ribcage.
I wanted to laugh as I stared into his dark, sympathetic eyes. Is this the same man that threatened to bury me in concrete?
Miranda stood by my side. I kept holding her hand. Even when she started to remove it, I took it back.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Her dark-red hair was pinned up in a bun, revealing her long, milky neck, which I wanted to nuzzle into. Dressed in a black knee-length dress with a modest neckline and roses around the hem, she epitomized the type of individuality and style that money couldn’t buy.
“I’m good.” I adjusted my cuffs.
“This may seem inappropriate, considering the occasion, but you look divinely handsome in that tux.”
“And you look exquisite,” I said, kissing her cheek.
“Hm. Aren’t we all loved up.”
I turned to see Bevan Jones, wearing the same smarmy expression as always.
“You’ve scrubbed up well,” he said to Miranda. “That brown dress hid all your considerable assets, I see.”
I clenched my fists. I was dying to punch his smug, Botox-filled face. But I held back. A funeral was hardly the place to brawl.
“So you got the boss,” he continued.
Miranda returned his smirk. “No, the boss got me.”
Pride filled me at her quick return.
