Page 12 of The Woman at the Funeral

“Okay. Let me know when you get something that looks like a match. And if you hear any chatter about the hit. Oh, and if you get into any of Matt’s accounts on anything. I think the cops must have gotten his phone. But if you can get into anything that might give me a clue.”

“He didn’t tell you what he was involved in?”

“You know Matt. He was always saying it was the next million-dollar scheme. Even if he did tell me, I didn’t commit it to memory.”

“Maybe his widow… no?” he asked when I shook my head.

“They were separated the last few days. That’s why Matt was at my place.”

“This wasn’t that far from your place. Are we sure there isn’t some link to the Family?” Zen asked, rocking back in his chair.

“It’s an angle I’m working. I need to have a talk with Lorenzo. See if there are any active threats. But I feel like if there were, they would have trickled down to me by now. Who knows, though.”

“I’ll see if there’s any chatter about the Family. But it should have gotten flagged for me if it was out there anywhere.”

“Thanks, Zen. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Will do,” he agreed. I made my way to the door, but my brother’s voice called to me again. “Hey, Nico.”

“Yeah?” I asked, turning back.

“You okay? I know you jump right into fix-it mode. But how are you holding up?”

I sucked in a deep breath and let it slowly out.

“I’m alright. I’ll feel better when the fucks who did this pay for it.”

“Yeah. We’ll find them.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, making my way out.

I made my way down to the street but paused next to my car, leaning against it as a wave of grief, confusion, anger, and helplessness overcame me.

I let myself have a minute.

Then I got in my car and drove to the boss’s house.

CHAPTER FOUR

Blair

A headache was hammering behind my eyes when the pounding at the apartment door started.

“Ugh.” I rolled out of bed, feeling paper-dry from the inside out.

I reached for the glass decanter on the nightstand, pouring the contents into the matching glass and greedily taking a drink as I made my way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

The last thing I needed after yet another night of crying was to deal with someone at my door, so I was pretty much planning on checking to see who it was then pretending I wasn’t home.

Admittedly, the only reason I was checking at all was that some pathetic part of me was hoping it might be Nico Costa.

As I narrowed in on the peephole, though, I knew it was a pipe dream. It had been six days since the funeral. There’d been no sign of Nico.

Of course there hadn’t been.

If there was one bitter reality pill I’d needed to swallow in my life, it was that I was—and always would be—on my own.

Leaning in, I peered out.

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