Page 71 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
“The body of businessman Enrique Bianchi was found this morning, hanging from a statue in front of the governor’s office building.”
I tear my attention from Sasha, watching the images of flashing sirens and journalists pressing against the taped-off crime scene.
Sasha snorts. “That was…”
“A fitting and undignified end?” Lorenzo says, a wicked smile gracing the old man’s lips.
“The Russian should be pleased,” I mumble.
My instructions to Lorenzo were simple. Make a public spectacle. Usually, we work in secret, behind closed doors. My father taught me that. However, this served three purposes. It placated Ronan Cole and his wishes. It sent a clear message to everyone who had dealings with Enrique that there is a new boss in town and presents the image that I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Lastly, it serves as a precursor to the governor of Palermo, who I will be meeting within the near future to cut a deal. Fear is always such a strong motivator.
My phone rings, and I frown at the unknown number before answering. “Hello?”
“Ah, Adelina,” the heavily accented Russian voice drawls.
“Ronan.”
Sasha’s eyes snap to mine, a frown tugging his brows together.
“I do love a dramatic entrance. No one has any imagination anymore. You, my dear, are an artist.” He sighs almost wistfully. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
He hangs up. I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into with Ronan Cole. It feels like I bartered a deal without knowing what I would have to give, but when he’s giving me my life… any favor seems fair.
This is it, the final step. Closure.
A warm breeze drifts through the olive groves on top of the hill, rustling the leaves before sweeping through the gravestones that are littered through the quaint graveyard. I stare at the three headstones in front of me. Catalina Maria Ricci, Eduardo David Ricci, and Gabriella Catalina Ricci. The last one has a gaping hole in front of it. The last one should not be here.
Sasha’s fingers wind through mine as he stands vigil beside me. I cling to him because he feels like the only thing holding me together right now. The priest speaks words meant as comfort, but they feel hollow and pointless. There are no words, no scriptures, or religious ideals that can possibly justify this. Some people say they find their faith in times of suffering, in grief. Whatever faith I once had is now lost. No God would do this, take someone so young.
As I watch my sisters coffin lower into the cold ground, my tears are curiously absent. I have mourned her, replayed her death over in my mind a thousand times, it makes no difference. Losing her both broke and hardened me in ways I never could have imagined. I’ve accepted that I’m alone in this world now.
I remember standing in this exact place when we buried my mother, clinging to my father, crying because at six years old, I didn’t really understand death. We’re now intimately acquainted. My father cried with me that day, and so did Gabi. Now they’re all here. All together.
I step forward, a single red rose clutched between my fingers. I peer over the edge of the grave and drop it inside, watching the velvety petals kiss the polished, shiny surface of the coffin.
As they begin shoveling dirt into the grave, I turn away, unable to watch them entomb her beneath six feet of dirt. I expect to feel…at peace, as though justice has been served, but I don’t, not really. This much loss of life, so young, how can that ever be right?
When I get home, I want…I want a drink. Kicking off my heels, I pad through the house that was once so full of life and laughter. In the office, I find my father’s expensive bottle of bourbon. Years he kept this, saying it was for a special occasion. Now seems as good of a time as any, so I pop the top and tip it back, letting the age-old liquor kiss my lips and trickle down my throat.
The office door drifts open, the hinges letting out a squeal before revealing Sasha. He leans against the frame, thick arms folded over his chest and a look of concern on his face. I collapse into the chair and kick my bare feet up onto the desk.
“Want some?” I thrust the bourbon at him, and he saunters into the room.
“You’re drinking. Should I be worried?”
“Maybe you should stop thinking so much and just join in.”
He rounds the desk and leans against it in front of me, crossing one ankle over the other. He plucks the bottle from my fingers and turns it up. I watch as his throat bobs on a heavy swallow.
I take the bottle and tip it back once more. A smile crosses my lips at the thought of my father seeing this. He’d be horrified. Good liquor should be in crystal. That’s what he always said. When Gabi was a teenager, she’d regularly steal his whiskey by slipping it in a mug and pretending it was coffee. He called her uncouth more times than I can remember. He’d be turning in his grave, knowing I’m drinking his rare, vintage bourbon straight from the bottle.
