Page 154 of Crazed

"Hmm." I pretend to look at a watch even though my wrist is bare. "Since I have absolutely nothing planned for today, I'd say anytime you're ready."

"I kind of like you at my beck and call," he adds.

I smack his shoulder, laughing.

"It's warm outside. I don't think you need a jacket or anything," he states.

"Awesome!" I exclaim, happy the sunshine is returning to New York.

"Let's go," he instructs, takes my hand, and leads me through the suite, then the wing, and down the staircase. We step outside into the warm spring air. His black SUV and driver are waiting. We slide inside and take off.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going now?" I ask.

He shakes his head. Amusement fills his blues. He answers, "Nope."

I pretend to pout. "Aww. Please?"

He leans his head next to mine. "Say that again."

"Pleeeeeease," I reply with a smile.

He picks up my hand and kisses it. "Sorry. I can't tell you."

"Really?" I question.

"Yep." His phone rings, and he groans. "I have to take this."

"It's okay," I assure him.

He answers in Italian and has a fairly long conversation. I spend the time glancing out the window, admiring the spring colors that are finally starting to pop. He hangs up and says, "Sorry."

I shrug. "No worries. How far are we?"

He points to the exit marker on the side of the road. "This is us."

The SUV veers off the ramp. We drive several more blocks before pulling into Green-Wood Cemetery. It's the place where the elite of New York gets buried.

Confused, I question, "Are we going to a funeral?"

Massimo's face turns neutral. "No."

"Then why are we here?"

He answers, "My mamma's burial plot is here. My papà will also get buried here. Actually, all the Marinos have plots."

"Oh."

The driver turns down several roads then stops. Massimo gets out of the SUV and reaches in for me. I grab his hand, and he helps me out.

We walk across the green grass until we get to a large mausoleum shaped like an angel hugging a heart. It has several Marino names on it, including Nicoletta Marino.

"Do you come here often?" I ask Massimo, feeling guilty I haven't been to my father's grave in a while. The sting of his early death also hits me, but I try to shove it down.

"Not a lot," Massimo admits, then adds, "But I wanted to show you something else."

"What?"

He moves me several feet to another plot. The dirt looks fresh, as if it was recently added. I look at him in question. He tugs me closer to him and informs me, "Your father got moved here this morning."

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