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I didn’t know if she meant ‘poor’ as in financially or emotionally, but I agreed in either case.
“I’m not going to marry someone for power or because my dad wants me to. And maybe you’ve forgotten, but Luka is a murderer. A killer. I’m not going to marry a killer.”
Chiara purses her lips and rolls her eyes. “You’ve got some high standards. That disqualifies every man I’ve ever dated.”
Just then, the pastor walks to the front of the chapel and the funeral begins. Cal never struck me as a particularly religious person, but his family must be. We stand and sing hymns, recite prayers, and his mother—a petite woman I can’t believe gave birth to someone as large as Cal—crosses herself several times throughout the proceedings. Thankfully, the service is brief, and within half an hour, everyone is standing up and shuffling for the doors.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I turn around to see Samuel standing behind me. He is only a few years younger than my father, but he looks like he could be closer to my age than my dad’s. His black hair has only a few grays at the temple and his tan skin is nearly unlined save for some smile marks around his mouth and eyes. He looks altogether too kind to be my father’s top advisor.
“Your father wants to know if you are going to attend the graveside service?” he asks.
“Oh,” I turn around to look at Cal’s closest family members in the first few rows. They are all dabbing at their eyes and comforting one another, hugging and weeping. I’ve had more than enough of their pain for one day. “No, I don’t think so.”
He nods. “I understand. You took an impressive step by coming to the funeral at all.”
“You think so?” I ask, not entirely sure what he means.
“Absolutely.” He grips my shoulder and lowers his eyebrows in sincerity. “This was your first real experience with the kind of violence that exists in our world, and I know it has been difficult for you.”
My throat constricts, and I don’t entirely understand why. I’m fine. It hasn’t been difficult. I mean, I haven’t exactly been jumping for joy the past few days, but that is mostly because of the nightmares. When I close my eyes, I see Luka’s face. I see him wiping the blood from his knife on the hitman’s shirt. I see him leaping over the man’s body and landing in front of me like the trained assassin he is.
The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether I’m might be having a difficult time after all. I’ve been too tired and overwhelmed to give it much thought, but maybe I am taking Cal’s death harder than I thought.
“With everything that is going on right now,” Samuel continues, “the marriage proposal and the feuds and these unfortunate losses, I know it can be hard to find someone to talk to. Everyone has opinions about what you should do and how you should respond.”
“You most of all, right?” I joke, though I can’t manage a smile. “You’re an advisor.”
He smiles kindly. “Well, my advice to you is to find someone you can be honest with.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it to me. On it is the name of a doctor with a number scribbled underneath. “She’s a therapist who is married to a Furino member. She knows this life better than anyone and will keep your secrets, but she can also help. I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel—”
“No,” I say, waving away his concern and tucking the number into my pocket. “It is really nice of you. I appreciate it. Thanks.”
Samuel smiles and pats my arm once before dropping his hand to his side. Then, he leans in, voice low. “And if you want my opinion, I think you were right to turn down Luka’s marriage offer.”
“Really?” I ask, something like relief filling my chest.
He nods. “I’m working on slowly convincing your father it was the right choice, too. He isn’t there yet, but I’ll keep trying.”
I’m so relieved to know at least one other person understands my decision to refuse Luka that I could cry. My father catches Samuel’s attention and tips his head towards the back of the room where Chiara is chatting up one of the mourners, a handsome red-haired man who is dabbing at his red eyes and backing away from Chiara’s obvious advances like she is a rabid dog. Samuel rolls his eyes and hustles across the chapel to pry her away.
It seems like a good time to leave. The chapel is beginning to clear out, and clearly Chiara can’t be trusted on her own, so I grab my purse from under the pew and begin sliding towards the center aisle. As I do, I look up and see Cal Higgs’ mother making her way towards the aisle at the same time. A heavyset woman with mascara tracks down her cheeks stands beside her. I recognize her as Cal Higgs’ wife. He had a photo of her in his office, and I looked at every time I walked in because I couldn’t believe he was actually married.
I wait in the pew for them to pass, not wanting to get in their way or draw attention to myself, but it doesn’t matter. Cal’s wife looks up at me, and her forehead wrinkles. Then, she turns to Cal’s mother, whispers something in her ear, and both women are looking at me.
My heart begins to beat faster. I look at the ground, adjust my purse on my shoulder, and generally fidget to try and look like I haven’t noticed them talking about me. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t know what to say, and I have no idea what Cal may have told them about me. Did he tell his wife he welcomed mob members into his restaurant? Did she know I was only on his staff because my father forced him to hire me? And if they do know those things, will they connect the dots and realize that my violent connections are the reason Cal is dead? I don’t think I can handle that kind of confrontation, but I also can’t run away. That will make me look even more guilty.
I hope the women will walk past me, but they don’t. In fact, they change their course and head straight for me. I have no choice but to look up at them and offer a sympathetic smile.
“Beautiful service,” I say.
His wife nods. “It was. Cal would have liked it.”
“He would have loved it,” his mother blubbers, pressing a very damp handkerchief to her nose. Then, she looks up at me, her lips trembling. “He also would have loved that you came.”
“Me?” I ask, too shocked to try and pretend otherwise.
“He loved that restaurant,” his wife says. “He enjoyed working with all of you so much, and it would mean a lot to him to know that you cared.”
