Page 20 of Sweet Revenge
Her eyes met his in the rearview mirror, and he watched her adjust the skirt of her dress with trembling fingers. “No.”
They sat in silence a bit longer, and when her hand reached for the door, he got out and held it open for her. He watched her spine straighten and her chin tick up as she inhaled long and deep.
The crowd gathered outside the church fell into a hushed silence when they saw her. He waited as she paused to speak to people she recognized, shake hands, accept condolences. The mood inside the cathedral was somber; conversations were traded in soft whispers that reverberated in a low hum through the vaulted ceilings and archways.
He hadn’t been to Mass in ages. After a childhood spent in Catholic school and the confessional, Declan decided to save church for weddings and funerals instead, maybe the occasional christening.
Bouquets of the purple and white flowers Nessa had chosen crowded around a large framed photo of O’Brian and Mary Elizabeth, and he saw her stare before deliberately turning to greet Rory McBride and his wife, Bridget.
He watched her carefully, but his ears were tuned for snatches of conversation. He wanted to know what the gossip was. The meeting with his lieutenants was set for tomorrow morning, but it didn’t hurt to know what they were saying so he could head them off as much as possible.
Most of the gossip today, however, seemed to be about the long-lost O’Brian daughter coming back to town and exactly what that might mean. He wanted answers to that question as much as anyone.
As they neared the front of the church, they both spotted Maura at the same time, and one look at his cousin’s fiancé told Declan this was not going to be a happy reunion. He exchanged a glance with James, who gave the slightest nod and stepped up beside Evie.
“Maura,” Evie said softly.
“You really are back. I heard as much.” Maura’s gaze drifted to Cait, who stood at Evie’s other elbow, then snapped back to Evie’s face.
“I’m glad to see you.”
“Are you?”
Evie’s expression hardened. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Maura. But we all make choices.”
“Yes,” Maura spat. “And I’m making one right now.”
Pinning Cait with a look of disappointment, Maura stepped around Evie and moved to the back of the church, taking a seat in the last pew. James looked to Declan and waited for his nod of approval before joining his fiancé.
“She’s just upset with everything that’s happened, stressed about the wedding,” Cait soothed.
Evie peeked over her shoulder, the hurt clear in her eyes. “I’m not so sure. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
They took their seats in the first pew beside Nessa, who shared a quick, awkward hug with Evie. Evie and Nessa had never been close, even as children, and time had driven them even further apart. Evie, Cait, and Maura had always been an unstoppable force, though, getting each other into and out of trouble as girls.
Hell, they’d roped him and his brothers into their schemes more often than not. Declan knew Maura’s icy reception hurt Evie more than she would let herself show, and the fact that he couldn’t fix it pissed him off. Not because he couldn’t, but because he knew she wouldn’t let him.
When Father Michael appeared from a side door, robes swirling around him, the congregation stood silently. The priest took them through the processional of the caskets, the scripture readings, and the prayers, and Declan glanced around the cathedral to check in with men he’d staged around the perimeter.
He always had security at big syndicate gatherings, no matter the occasion. He never left his people vulnerable to attack. The Callahan syndicate stood as the most powerful in the city, but that didn’t mean other crime families didn’t like to test his boundaries and his patience when they thought they had something to gain.
You’d think the simple fact that anyone who tried ended up dead would discourage people, but sometimes hubris knew no bounds. Like DiMarco and his moonlighting gig as an accountant for both the Russians and the Italians.
Either DiMarco was trying to infiltrate the Russians on behalf of the Italians, or he was playing both sides. Declan didn’t much care either way. He cared only about keeping order in his city, and he’d do so by whatever means necessary.
The brush of Evie’s hand against his arm as she stood for the hymn startled him out of his thoughts, and he rose beside her. Her voice was as clear and beautiful as he remembered it. She used to sing along to whatever was on the radio, volume all the way up. He’d pick her up from her parents’ house in his Mustang, top down, and let her pick the music. Didn’t matter what it was as long as he could listen to her sing it.
When Father Michael began the homily, Declan followed Evie’s gaze to the framed photo of her mother and saw the tears gathered in her eyes. When one fell, he reached out without thinking to brush it from her cheek, and she surprised him by leaning into his hand for the briefest of moments.
She looked at him then, and for a split second, he could read all the sadness and longing in her gaze. Then the shutters came down, and she was lost to him again. She pulled away, and he dropped his hand as Father Michael resumed the prayers, inviting them all to sit.
When the service ended, they led the procession to the private cemetery in silence. Father Charles offered up his own prayers this time, and Declan could sense Evie’s growing desire for this all to be over in the way she couldn’t stop fidgeting.
Her fingers plucked at the edges of the program, twisting and tearing it into tiny pieces that the wind whipped away. He reached out to lay his hand over hers, and she turned her palm upward, lacing her fingers through his as if by habit, and he ignored the warmth that spread through him.
When the priest called for them to stand for the final prayer, Evie pulled her hand from his grasp, staring down at her fingers and then up at Declan before moving to drop a handful of dirt on top of each casket.
As the crowd dispersed, Declan kept his distance but watched her closely. When the last person said their goodbyes and moved away, he stepped in front of her, shielding her from the view of the lingering crowd.
