Page 56 of Red Retaliation
“It better be!” Ignoring their disgruntled mutterings, I sling my jacket on and stalk towards the door. I don’t need reminders that my wedding night was not “standard” either. Still, hacking up that fucking journalist relieved a small percentage of frustration. And, I think, with a slight smile, it should take the authorities time to fully identify the bastard. Hatchets are good like that!
But making irritating bastards unrecognizable hasn’t dissolved enough of my frustration. Last night, being forced out of the awkward situation of being in the same room and bed as Arianna, unable to touch her, was a blessing in disguise. It would have killed me not removing her wedding dress with my teeth.
But I’ll be there tonight, and regardless of the wedding dress no longer being in the frame, things will be difficult. But first, I’ve got to deal with this. I jerk my head at my brothers. “Come on, let’s go.”
I just have to hope Arianna has followed my instructions and is ready and waiting in the casino reception because I don’t trust myself to fetch her without abandoning myself and giving in to the rampant urge to take her as mine completely.
CHAPTER
39
Arianna
EVERYONE IS STARING AT ME. There’s so many eyes burrowing into the back of my head, it’s impossible to guess the amount. Probably hundreds, because the crematorium is full.
Steve Farrow was well-liked, so I can’t blame anyone for looking at me. After all, I saw the newspaper myself this morning. I don’t think I was supposed to, but no one stopped me when I left the bedroom and wandered down into the main building. As I hadn’t heard a word from Red since he left last night, I was getting concerned that he’d miss the funeral, so I went to see if there was any sign of him.
A newspaper was just sitting there on the side, so I took it. In a way, I wish I hadn’t.
Another glimmer of unease rumbles through me, wondering what my parents thought when they saw it. Papà has a morning paper delivered each day without fail, so they would definitely have seen it by now.
The photograph - one of several, spoke volumes too: Red’s arm tightly around my waist, my hand on his chest; me looking up at his beaming face with pure enchantment.
He looked so handsome, so goddamn hot. Just seeing the photo made me sweat. And if I didn’t know any better, our expressions looked realistic, making the picturesextremelydamning.
We looked jubilant - ecstatic, even. Andthoroughlyconvincing.
A far cry from the mood now or since Red entered the casino reception to leave for the crematorium.
Now we’re seated here and Steve’s service is well underway, my eyesfall to rest on Red’s knee that’s brushing against mine. We’re so tightly packed there’s little room to move, and the closeness makes me claustrophobic. Plus, I’m hot -reallyhot. It’s stuffy, and I feel sick.
Whether it’s from lack of food, nerves or pure exhaustion, I don’t know, but I can’twaituntil this is over.
I’d planned to ask Red about the news article on the way here, but he barely said two words to me. Crammed into the back of the funeral limo with his brothers and Del wasn’t an opportune time. Discovering he’d returned to the casino hours earlier but chose to stay in his office, shows me exactly where I stand.
I’m not sure what else I expect? Perhaps a bit of courtesy when not in front of an audience?
I focus on the large coffin holding Steve Farrow not five feet away.
Sitting on the front row has its benefits but also its downsides, and I try not to let the sobbing woman on the other side of the aisle affect me.
She must be Steve’s wife, and I dare not look at the two children clinging to their distraught mother.
The two men with her, that judging by their looks from the few times I saw Steve, are his brothers. They’re giving me stares to freeze blood. I don’t need to feel any worse.
It’s like I have a banner attached, reading,“He’s dead because of me!”
Steve’s deathismy fault. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t run to Red in the first place. I wouldn’t have entertained it had I not taken it upon myself to kill Roberto.
My clammy hands wring in my lap, leaving sweat marks on my black dress, but I can’t stop.
Why did I wear this dress, anyway?
The split halfway up my left thigh exaggerates the shine of my glossy stockings, and I know Red’s eyes are on my legs. It’s not the first time, and once again, I sorely regret my choice of attire. Out of all of those beautiful clothes he insisted on buying, I should have worn something more suitable. There was a black skirt suit and a trouser suit in the selection. I could have worn either of those, so why didn’t I?
My fingers twist the silky material. Did I wear this dress because I naively thought it the best choice or I am a shallow, vain creature who, having run away from the mess I’ve caused, am attempting to justify it by prettifying myself?
Or was it because I hoped Red might notice...
