Page 92 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
He takes my hand—carefully, aware of the bandages—and threads his fingers through mine. "Come on, Fiorella. Let us go say goodbye."
The funeral home is packed.
It seems like every member of the Irish mafia is here, along with associates, allies, friends, and people I have never seen before who apparently knew Seamus well enough to attend his funeral.The room smells like lilies and wood polish and grief, and the open casket at the front makes my stomach lurch again.
Luca's hand tightens on mine as we walk down the center aisle, past rows of mourners dressed in black, toward where Seamus lies.
He looks wrong.
That is the first thought that hits me when I see him. Wrong. Too still. Too pale. Too much like a wax figure and not enough like the man who used to laugh so hard at his own jokes that he would wheeze. The man who taught me how to shoot a gun when I was eleven. The man who told me I was smart and capable and worthy.
My father.
Gone.
My knees buckle slightly, and Luca immediately wraps his arm around my waist, holding me upright.
"I’ve got you," he murmurs against my ear. "Breathe, Lina."
I force air into my lungs, force myself to keep moving forward until we are standing right in front of the casket. Someone has dressed Seamus in his best suit, folded his hands over his chest, arranged everything to look peaceful.
But he is not at peace. He is just dead.
The sob that rips out of my throat surprises me with its violence. I press my free hand to my mouth, trying to hold the sound in, but it is useless. Once it starts, I cannot stop it.
"Rosie."
The voice makes me spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance.
Erin.
She is standing three feet away, dressed in a simple black dress, her red hair pulled back, her face pale and tear-stained, and for a moment I think I am hallucinating because she cannot be here, she is supposed to be safe in Texas, she is supposed to be?—
"Erin!" I close the distance between us in two strides and throw my arms around her, and she catches me, then we both collapse into each other, sobbing.
"You are here," I gasp against her shoulder. "How are you here? I have been trying to call you for weeks?—"
"I know, I know, I am sorry." Her voice is thick with tears. "The farm phone broke and I didn’t have your new number and I only found out about Dad three days ago when Dolan finally tracked down one of his old contacts."
Dad. She called him Dad, and the word breaks something open in my chest.
We stand there in the middle of the funeral home, holding each other and crying, and I do not care that people are staring, do not care about anything except the fact that she is here, she is safe, she is alive.
When we finally pull apart, both our faces are wrecked, makeup smeared, eyes swollen.
"I missed you," I choke out.
"I missed you too." She cups my face with both hands. "God, Rosie, I am so sorry. I should have been here. I should have?—"
"You are here now," I interrupt. "That is all that matters."
The funeral passes in a blur of tears and prayers and people offering condolences that I barely register. Erin and I sit together in the front row, our hands clasped so tightly between us that my bandages start to ache, but I don’t let go. Can’t let go.
Dante, Gabriel, and Luca sit in the row behind us—close enough to offer support but far enough back to give Erin and me space. I can feel their presence like a physical weight, solid and reassuring, and it is the only thing keeping me from dissolving completely.
Patrick gives the eulogy.
He talks about Seamus's loyalty, his strength, his dedication to family. He talks about legacy and honor and carrying on traditions. And the entire time he is speaking, I stare at him and think about his hand on my throat, his threats against Erin, how he wants me to betray Dante.
