Page 11 of Scarlet Angel

Uncle Alessio rambles, head down, with my aunt. In mourning, the monster appears human. His children love him, as one does with parents, but only because they have yet to see behind the mask.

“There’s no choice.” Orlando wrenches his arm away, and under his breath adds, “You of all people know that.”

“There’s always a choice.” As the words leave my mouth, I taste the hypocrisy. “For you, there can be. You don’t have to commit. You’re young. Wait a year. Your sister just?—”

“Don’t say it.” His Adam’s apple shifts below two scraggly black hairs he must have missed this morning when shaving. It feels like yesterday Willow and I ran our fingers down his baby-soft skin after his first-ever shave. “I’m choosing my family.” Dark brown eyes, so different from his sister’s vibrant blue, flash a warning. “You should, too.”

With that, he departs, head down, and I watch his sad retreat.

The tall, too-thin woman dressed in clothes that swallow her joins me at the foot of Willow’s casket. “It was a beautiful service,” she says.

The woman, introduced earlier as Lina Ivanov, inches closer.

I’ve been told someone will come along and fill the hole with dirt after we’re gone. The scent of damp earth permeates the air, and the mostly bare tree limbs add gloom to the graveyard. Scattered flowers, roses, and a dozen willow branches litter the stainless-steel outer casket, which will keep her remains dry for over a century. Inside the waterproof shield lies an elegant mahogany coffin. I never glimpsed the interior of the coffin, as my aunt and uncle chose a closed casket service. The wreck and river disfigured Leo and Willow beyond recognition.

I don’t wish to think of that, yet the insidious thought settles into crevices of my psyche and chips away at my heart until it aches. I’ve never seen a waterlogged dead body, yet my twisted mind fills in images that I hope aren’t correct.

Lina’s heels sink into the soft soil, and leaves crinkle as she shifts, seeking firmer ground.

I wish to be left alone, but I can’t easily tell this stranger to leave. It’s just as well. I’ll return later. There are things I want to say to Willow, unsaid things that should’ve been said, and I wouldn’t say those things with family milling about.

“Did the preacher know her well?” Lina asks, breaking the silence.

“Father Francisco has been at our church for as long as I can remember.”

Did Willow go to confession and share her darkest secrets with the elderly man? Doubtful. Did she ever have any meaningful interactions with Father Francisco? Again, doubtful. But he serves thefamiglia.

“Good. I can’t stand it when the minister knows nothing about the person and the service becomes a religious lecture.”

I have no idea what Father Francisco said during the service. My mind wandered, lost in a haze of sorrow.

“Did you spend time with Willow?” I ask, shifting the conversation away from the service.

Willow talked little about Nick and his sister, but she called me not too many weeks ago, panicked, wondering what to do to help someone who had lost consciousness from drug use. Lina, Nikolai Ivanov’s sister, had been the one she needed to assist. Poor judgment aside, I sensed Willow liked Lina.

“I loved visiting her in London. She was a good match for Leo.” Lina glances over her shoulder, and my gaze follows hers.

The group is dispersing. My uncle and Nikolai are conversing. My gaze connects with Nikolai’s, and the perimeter fades. A heightened sense of awareness strikes. My skin tingles and my eyes burn, and I find myself locked in a trance.

“My brother fancies you.”

I blink, breaking the hypnotic state, and focus on her words. Nikolai and I share a common goal, but it’s an aspiration that may culminate with a death knell. I’ll pay any price to put an end to the cycle.

“Are you feeling the same?” Her teasing tone strikes me as out of place standing next to two coffins.

“I assure you, there’s no fancying going on.”

“Oh, no. He’s a dozen years older than me, but I know my brother inside and out.”

An argument brews somewhere deep inside, but I lack the energy to bring it forward. With one last glance at the pair of flower-strewn coffins, I turn.

My mother stands awkwardly, hands clasped, disapproval etched on her face.

“If you’ll excuse me, I should bid farewell to my mother,” I say, but my heels remain rooted to the damp earth. Too often, I don’t wish to do what I should.

“Are you staying?”

There’s a spritely happiness to her tone that couldn’t be more inappropriate.

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