Page 17 of Salvatore

This is the exact reason you don’t mess with the mafia. Not at all. Not even a little bit. You can never predict how they’ll respond.

I snap my attention to Liv, anxiety clogging my throat as I follow her to the reserved seats at the front of the chapel.

I take my place beside Olivia on the pew, Allison on her far side.

Jesus Christ, Ivy, how could you let your mistakes ruin Carlo’s funeral?

I drag in a deep breath and stare at the glossy mahogany casket taking center stage in the middle of the room, the large floral adornment placed on top of it filling my lungs with sweet perfume.

Please, please, please don’t make me responsible for a scene.

The celebrant approaches while I try not to fidget, the older man leaning down and speaking to Liv. Murmured words areexchanged while I engage in mental gymnastics in an attempt to stop thinking about the mess I’ve made.

Such a goddamn fucking mess.

I steal a subtle glance over my shoulder, and there it is again—Salvatore’s smirk set in hues of sickeningly gorgeous arrogance.

Asshole.

His family doesn’t look at me though. Not now, or during the celebrant’s greeting. And I know because I chance a hundred and one peeks at them in the space of a few minutes.

The family members surrounding Salvatore are too preoccupied with Remy Costa—the youngest member of their death squad, if memory serves. And the only one who appears visibly saddened by Carlo’s death.

Maybe this isn’t about me after all.

Maybe this is just some sick coincidence.

The officiant recites a poem. “Death is nothing at all.”

The words barely register over the constant stream of what-the-fuck shouting in my head.

“Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.”

My leg jolts of its own accord as people sniff and softly sob. Liv slides a hand over my thigh and squeezes, the gesture no doubt meant to gently calm, yet it only increases my instability because she shouldn’t be givingmecomfort at a time like this.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

She gives a pained smile that’s more of a wince. An uncomfortable placation.

I’m the worst friend ever.

I should’ve told her exactly why I didn’t want to go to that stupid club last week. I should’ve told her everything.

Moments later, she stands to deliver her eulogy.

In typical Liv fashion, she nails it, delivering the perfect mix of love, light, and laughter that brings Allison to tears.

My neck tingles the entire time, Salvatore’s presumed attention making me itch.

It isn’t until the obligatory photomontage is shared on the overhead screen that my panicked thoughts take a back seat to loss.

Images of Carlo flash in three-second intervals, his warm smile bringing heartache.

A photo from our most recent Christmas party spreads across the overhead screen. Allison, Carlo, and me, arm in arm with alcohol-fueled smiles. I choke up, my throat painfully tight. Allison drags in a shuddering breath.

There are photos of Liv, her dad, and her mom. Childhood memories. Pictures with colleagues. Some with family. Then finally, one that makes my heart stop.

It’s an image of Carlo with Remy Costa, the two of them captured in a candid conversation somewhere I don’t recognize.

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