Page 1 of The Woman at the Funeral

CHAPTER ONE

Nico

The dead don’t care about punctuality.

It was those left to miss him that had me running through the crowds of umbrellas on the street to race toward the church. Rain splattered my black suit and dripped down my unshaven face.

It had been a long three days since I’d gotten the news—straight from the five o’clock news. These days, news cycles work faster than common decency.

No one should find out that the friend they’ve had since they were five years old had been gunned down on the street from a slick-haired man with mock sympathy in his eyes and judgment held tight in the corners of his lips.

What was he doing out on the street at four in the morning?

What was he into that had people wanting him dead?

They were questions everyone was likely thinking, to be fair. Including the people sitting inside the church that frowned down on the city, ancient and judgmental of everything it had seen since the first massive sandstone brick was laid several hundred years before.

I glanced up, taking a deep breath, then forcing my legs to take me up the steps.

I’d been to plenty of funerals in my day. It came with the territory when you spend your life in a profession that all but guaranteed bloodshed.

That said, this was the first funeral I’d attended since my grandparents passed that belonged to someone I’d known almost all my life, someone who I cared for on more than just a surface level.

The heavy doors groaned open, like they, too, were heavy with grief.

The welcome sign had my step stuttering.

Celebrating the life of Matthew Ferraro.

I recognized the picture that had been used. It had been taken the day before his wedding, snapped by his younger brother just after announcing they were all heading to a strip club, despite Matt promising his fiancée that we were just going out for steak and drinks.

He was smiling big.

I remember I’d been the only one frowning about the whole situation.

I knew instantly that the photo had been chosen by Matt’s family, not his wife. She would have picked something more polished. Maybe one of their wedding snaps. Or, at least, a picture of him with his face shaved and his hair combed.

Though, I had to admit, it was probably the picture that represented the man best. Carefree, unguarded, maybe a bit mischievous.

I forced my gaze away, dipping my finger into the holy water at the entrance and made the sign of the cross like muscle memory before stepping toward the side.

Mary sat watch over the flickering votives in their red glass holders.

I lit one flame for Matthew.

And one for everyone left behind to miss him.

Turning back, I wiped lingering water from my face and looked down the center aisle, the old wooden pews pouring out toward each side.

This wasn’t a Family funeral—packed to the rafters with family, friends, and associates.

This was a small, intimate affair.

And I couldn’t help but notice that Matthew’s family—mother, father, brother, and two aunts—sat to the right.

Leaving Matt’s wife to sit alone on the left, where she’d likely arrived first and sat.

The rift between Matthew’s family and his wife had been there since the beginning—fostered and encouraged by Matt’s mom.

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