Page 79 of Sinfully His

“Of course it was me, you dumb bitch,” I sneered, tired of the priest act.

“If you save me, I’ll?—”

I looked down her body and saw her chipped nails and the tint of reddish brown under her French tips. I picked up her hand and brought it to her face. “What’s this?”

She paled again.

“I think it’s blood,” Declan said.

“I think so too, but whose?”

“It’s none of your concern. No one that matters.”

I leaned in closer again.

“I was never going to take it this far. Don’t get me wrong, I was going to destroy you. I was going to ruin your reputation, but then I met Rose. That beautifully sweet, innocent woman who you abused constantly. Stealing from you, destroying your reputation, having you kicked off of every charitable board in the entire city. That was for me. This…this is for Rose.”

I stood and watched as she opened and closed her mouth, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side as she tried to figure out the best play. There were no more plays.

“Enjoy your fate, Mary Quinn. I would offer you a prayer before you meet your maker, but we both know Satan doesn’t give a fuck.”

I turned and walked away from the table. The two thugs Declan had with him each carried a scalpel in their hands.

“Sticking with the theme?” I asked Declan.

“It seemed appropriate,” he said, and I returned his shrug as I left the surgical suite, Mary Quinn’s screams echoing down the hall.

I stopped at the end of the hallway where the small group of nurses were staring up at me, their eyes wide. I made the sign of the cross and left.

My vengeance was complete, and Rose was free.

CHAPTER 33

THOMAS

Istood at the podium, watching Mary Quinn’s closed casket be brought down the aisle for her funeral. Her son, of course, did his duty leading the procession, my brother, acting as the dutiful son-in-law that he was, on the other side with her coffin on his shoulder. The others behind them I didn’t recognize.

They probably just hired random people off Facebook Marketplace or something ridiculous like that. Who else would they ask? The other families were, of course, in attendance, not wanting to be seen as uncaring, but also distancing themselves so as not to be brought into Mary Quinn’s ongoing scandal.

Not even death would stop the chin wagging and gossip with this crowd. If anything, it made it worse.

Her own husband didn’t even escort her down the aisle.

Not that anyone blamed him. Still, the chickens would cluck about that too.

In all the years that I had fantasized about Mary Quinn’s death, somehow it had never even occurred to me to believe that I would have the honor of standing at the pulpit, presiding over her funeral, being the one to say the last words before she was to be carried to the Astrid mausoleum and entombed.

I didn’t know why it never even occurred to me they would ask me to do this.

Her casket was set on the table surrounded with white lilies and carnations, a flower she notoriously detested, calling it a weed with no class. I didn’t know who chose it, but I admired their style.

I looked out over the congregation all in black, several of the women wearing fashionable hats with black veils covering a portion of their faces. Many of them had their faces tipped down, tissues pressed to their eyes as I spoke, to help sell the idea of mourning a loss. But no one looked overly upset.

There was nothing inappropriate in my speech. I did not take the opportunity for snide comments or sly remarks. There was no need. She was gone. I had won.

The mood in churches was often somber during funerals. Celebrations of life where happier stories were shared happened elsewhere. This was a time to express loss, but the mood was sober more out of obligation; if anything, the overall ambiance was boredom.

A few people got up, made speeches as they were expected to do, and said nice things, most of them completely fabricated for the event. No one cried. No one mourned her at all.

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