Page 91 of Remy

I find more recent articles: Alleya Patriarch Found Dead

Mass Exodus. Alleya Heirs Jump Ship

From Negligees to Night Clubs—Denver’s Fashion Heirs Set Sights on Baltimore

I skim every write-up. Commit every image to memory. But whenever one of my questions is answered, ten more take its place.

I dive deep into the relatively recent and untimely death of Remy’s father, Emmanuel. I learn about Lorenzo Cappelletti. His powerful connections. The investments worth millions. And still, it’s not enough.

I read for hours, until my eyes burn and my head throbs. I begin to doze mid article, my head nodding, my laptop resting on my thighs, the living room lights still on. I drift into weightlessness. Soar. Then there he is, the infamous mafia man with tousled dark blond hair, stalking down a shadowed hall toward me in his impeccable suit, all calm and controlled.

My heart races as I backtrack into a heavy piece of furniture, the wickedly sinful man closing in on me, his hard thighs pressing into mine. I hold my breath, my focus trained on a dark gaze that makes my heart flutter. I don’t understand his effect on me. I’m scared but excited. Terrified yet turned on. He leans closer. My mouth tingles. His scent envelopes me, his lips so tempting?—

I startle awake, my pulse rampant, my breathing ragged.

I listen for noise. For movement. For Remy.

Why would he be here, idiot?

He’s more likely to be out murdering the masses. Slaughtering civilians. Conquering my cremator.

Oh, shit. Could he be disposing of another body right now?

My breathing comes hard and fast, the witching hour paranoia gripping me by the throat. What if he’s at work, leaving a trail of blood through the funeral home for someone to find? What if he makes another mistake and Hugo’s no longer employed to take the fall?

I shove from the sofa, grab my car keys, coat, and phone, and rush from the house to my car.

He needs to be given more thorough instructions on when he can and can’t use the retort. I have to outline how long it takes for the equipment to cool. To ensure he understands how to clean things properly so no trace of remains are left behind unlike the first time Hugo was suspected of using the equipment.

I’d call him if I had his number. But I don’t. So instead, I drive toward work, stopping where Remy had yesterday, leaving half a block of space between me and the two-story building to make sure I don’t unnecessarily wake my father by driving into the parking lot.

I focus on the chimney clinging to the side of the building. Squint at the very top.

The cremator is state-of-the-art, with the best afterburners to block any black smoke from entering the sky, but there’s always a distortion of heated air as it enters the atmosphere.

I see no distortion now.

That could change though. Remy might show up later. He might have already been.

I stay in my freezing car for hours, my coat an unworthy opponent against the winter temperature while I curse this stupid arrangement and the heartbreaking circumstances that made it necessary. I shiver as I wait, my exhausted blinks slower than dripping molasses until the sun threatens to break past the horizon.

Only then do I give up and drive home, almost frozen solid, to get ready for work while battling a sleep deprivation headache from hell.

I arrive at the funeral home half an hour early so I can check on my dad, who proceeds to shoo me away from his apartment door with enough renewed energy to place my mind slightly at ease. He’s regained his normal coloring. There’s light in his eyes, too.

“Liv, stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”

I stumble back down the outdoor stairs, my tired legs barely able to carry my weight, and sequester myself in the seclusion of my prep room, placing the do-not-disturb sign on the door.

Thankfully, Ivy and Allison heed the warning. They don’t come to greet me when they arrive. There are no sassy quips, and there’s no sexual innuendo about the new guy. More to the point, there’s no grilling on why I pulled an eleventh-hour arrival yesterday looking like a bedraggled Komondor.

They know I don’t often demand privacy unless I have a difficult decedent. Usually one with injuries that require meticulous concentration and long hours to finesse.

But I guess nobody told Wesley the drill, because midafternoon, a slight rap sounds at my door before it opens to showcase him standing on the other side in a black suit and polished leather shoes.

“Hey,” he greets.

I shoot him a two-second glance from beneath my face shield, then return my attention to the deceased eighty-nine-year-old woman on the prep table before me. “I’m busy.”

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