Page 33 of As Angels Sin

For a man who has caused so many, I hate funerals.

Stuffy suits and weepy faces really take the fun out of death. But that’s what normal people do, isn’t it? They let their silly emotions get in the way of the joys of life. Nothing can be straightforward. Everything must have a hidden meaning, even the great equalizer that we will all someday face.

Today, however, I find myself among those seeking the truth. Not because Lorenzo Napoli deserves it, mind you. If I’m honest, I’m more upset that I wasn’t the one who kill him. Especially when I consider the dog who did.Fucking Tomas.

But there’s often good fortune to be found in someone else’s tragedy. And mine comes in the way of unravelling the mystery that’s been plaguing my mind since I returned to New York.

As it happens, the two perpetrators are heading my way.

“Gruesome affair, wouldn’t you say?” Matteo Baronne asks, extending a hand to me. I don’t take it. This funeral is the last place I want to be seen trying to blend in.

“How are you holding up?” Mark asks, noticing my rejection of his hand and slapping me on the shoulder instead.

This is how they do it. They plaster on a feeble smile and ask a simple question such ashow are you holding up? I should commit it to memory. I might need this kind of response myself, to show some of the other funeral goers.

“Fine,” I answer. “A little confused. Don’t funerals take weeks to arrange? How’d they get this one done so fast?” I look aroundthe scene. There’s got to be one hundred and fifty people here, if not more.

Matteo retracts his extended hand and clears his throat. Is he disappointed that I declined his offer? “We like to move quickly, Crue. To bury the body before anyone asks too many questions. The same rule applies from the lowest of the low, to the top of the dung heap.”

“And why did you come to the top of this dung heap?” My eyes move in Matteo’s direction, but the rest of me remains still.

“To say my last goodbye to an old... friend.” Matteo makes the sign of the cross in the air. Funny, he never struck me as a God-fearing man, before.

“Well, I’m just here to revel in that sack of shit getting put in the ground,” Mark says. He hasn’t picked up on Matteo’s shifty-eyed glances in my direction, the telltale sign that whatever they’re scheming should be kept under wraps. Or maybe Mark doesn’t care, because he’s my oldest friend, and the closet person I have to family. He won’t keep secrets from me. “I bet you’re happy about it. I know that prick’s been at the top of your list for years.”

“I’m not,” I answer, but keep my attention on Matteo. “He was meant to die by my hand. And out of everyone who could’ve brought him down, why the fuck was Tomas the one?”

Matteo laughs, unconcerned by who notices he’s contented, when we’re meant to be somber. “You had me worried there for a moment, Crue. I thought you’d gone soft on me.”

“Soft?” No part of me is soft right now. I’m tempered steel, prepared to do whatever it takes to get Fiametta and my child away from this shitshow.

“Yes. Soft. You seemed somewhat upset. Discontented. For a moment, I wondered if Lorenzo had gotten to you.” Matteo slides his hand into his pocket, and grabs two fat cigars. He hands one to Mark, puts the other in his own mouth and lightsthem both up. A celebratory smoke when the man isn’t even cold yet. I knew he was a ruthless mother-fucker.

“When were you going to tell me about Fiametta’s engagement?” I don’t give a fuck about their celebrating Lorenzo’s death. I want answers, and someone’s going to give them to me.

“I wasn’t, because it wouldn’t have gone anywhere.” Matteo arches a brow. “You see, Crue, Tomas is a bottom feeder. He’s no better than a shrimp in the sea. He rose to the top because he’s good at kissing ass, but he was so very easy to manipulate.” He waits for me to speak, to join in the belittling of Tomas or whatever else. I don’t, so he goes on. “I promised him the world because I knew he’d finish what I’ve struggled to do, myself.”

“I could’ve done it. I’d much rather he was my target than Fiametta.” I say this, but I don’t know why. They all know about my interactions with her, but acknowledging it like this is a big mistake.

“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead, she isn’t, and we can all move on.”

You can. I can’t.

“Fiametta’s death was meant to wound him. When she didn’t die — and I still don’t blame you, Crue — I had to come up with a different solution. Tomas has been a project that’s been in the works for far longer than your involvement in my business. So, I thought I’d take out two birds with one stone.”

My response is silence. Listening and judging.

“I decided to have Tomas kill Lorenzo and take command of Napoli’s men. It gives him the illusion of having power. Makes him feel strong, while in reality, I’m the one who’s running things,” he continues, as if he doesn’t notice how quiet I am.

“How does holding the main seat in two different houses benefit you?” I ask. The gears have long stopped turning in my head. The mystery may not be unraveled, but I’ve lost interest init. It might’ve been thrilling once, but now it’s just more mafia politics.

How. Fucking. Dull.

“What’s worse than two criminal tyrants running a city?” He slobbers on the end of his cigar while awaiting my answer.

“Three?”

Are we playing “Learning to Count”with Don Baronne now? Get to the fucking point.

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