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GREY
Of course it’s fucking raining. What better weather for a funeral?
The Chicago streets are slick and cold, and everyone keeps looking at me. Even if they try to pretend they’re not, I know they are. I catch their curious, straining gazes, not exactly sure what they expect from me. Do they want me to break down and cry? Do they want me to watch the funeral procession happening in front of me with smug satisfaction?
These are my own people, my own family. If the murder happened any other way, they probably would suspect it was me who killed my father. They do suspect it was me, I know that, because I’d be the perfect suspect—the oldest son, jealous of his father’s place, thinking he can do business better than a stuck-up old man. It was no secret that I hated my father, but I didn’t murder the bastard.
The onlookers are a mix of criminals, family, and the occasional civilian filled with morbid curiosity about my father and his death. He died less than twenty-four hours ago, and the news of his death spread like a wildfire—his body was barely cold before the entire city of Chicago knew about the brutal killing of one of the most powerful mob lords in the country.
Of course, that news didn’t reach me so fast. I was the last to know, too busy buried between a pair of milky thighs that I’d been after for weeks. And by the time I’d be done with her, everyone but myself knew that my father, the legendary Matthew Calvos, was dead.
“Are you ready now?” The somber voice breaks me out of my thoughts. Looking over, I catch the gaze of one of my father’s captains—now my own. I can’t remember his name. When I don’t respond, he tries again, “Grey?”
“It’s mine now, isn’t it?” I murmur, more to myself than him.
The Calvos Family Syndicate is mine.
It’s what I’ve always wanted. From the time I could remember walking into my father’s office, from the time I could understand what exactly my family was in business doing, I wanted it. I craved the power, the wealth, the position. When my dad fucked things up, I wanted to fix them, do them better. I made no secret of the fact. My father knew it, all of his men knew it.
Which is why the captain’s eyes gleam with a suspicion that will likely take weeks to kill. He’ll learn, sooner than later if he knows how to survive, that I didn’t murder my father. The facts are all there, if he’d just look.
Yes, I hated my father with every bone in my body, every breath in my lungs. No one would deny that. Matthew Calvos was a misogynistic bastard who didn’t deserve to be where he was. But even though I hated him, I didn’t murder him. Even though I hated him, I didn’t like how he was murdered. I still don’t.
Shot through the head with a smile ripping open his face, a signature Rossi kill if I ever saw one. Not that I actually saw my father’s body, I didn’t want to see that. I only looked at the pictures they shoved over my desk hours after it had happened. The pictures are still there, in the black folder, waiting to be filed away when the funeral is over. When he found out about my promotion to syndicate boss, my cousin, Henri Calvos, asked me what I would do first. I told him I would deal with the Rossi family.
The rest of the funeral passes like a blur. The crowds depart, those civilians and low life criminals with mouths gaping in awe at seeing the notorious Calvos family torn apart by grief. As we leave the church where my father requested to be buried in his will, my mother grips to my arm, feebly leaning against my body. Her grief is real, but my impassive face isn’t hiding anything. Not sadness, not grief, not bitterness. Of course I’d like to figure out exactly who the fucker is that shot him, but I’m not pissed about his death.
Shit is actually going to get done now that he’s gone.
“My condolences, Mrs. Calvos.” Oliver, our family’s driver, holds open the door for her.
My mother doesn’t reply, collapsing into the car. The crowd pushes in, but security keeps them well away. Cameras flash, reporters and tabloids desperate for anything that will bring them clicks and reads.
It isn’t until I’m about to get into the car that I catch one of the faces, our gazes snagging from across the street. She’s well hidden, and if it wasn’t for that sixth sense I seem to possess when only she’s around, I wouldn’t have noticed.
Arden Rossi cocks an eyebrow, watching me with smug satisfaction, and I duck into the car, a fresh wave of pissed rushing through me.
That shit ain’t gonna fly as long as I’m in charge.
