Page 1 of Of Murder and Matrimony

Chapter One

I shouldn't have to face this alone .

My brother should have been at my side. Instead, I stood at the gravesite, watching the black casket lower into the ground, the sole representative of the Neretti family. Around me, women wept, and men stayed stoic.

I kept my eyes straight ahead, jaw tense, and hands clasped tightly behind my back. My expensive black suit felt like a straightjacket, and my black Italian leather shoes were more akin to cement blocks. Fitting since my mind seemed close to its breaking point, and my ingrained sense of duty rooted me to the spot. I hardly noticed the blue sky on the sunny June Saturday, a slap in the face to those who felt trapped in the dark, grey world of mourning. Spring flowers littered across surrounding graves seemed ironic, given the amount of death and decay beneath our feet.

We’d lost several that day in the church, and the funerals kept coming. My father hadn’t been able to attend any of them; he was still laid up after being shot in the leg at what the media had dubbed the May Mass Massacre. Ettore Neretti wouldn’t dare let anybody in the family see him in less-than-perfect health.

The stress of it all started to take physical form. If somebody looked at my knuckles, they would be white as I forced my anxiety down, ignoring how my heart raced until my chest hurt, how every breath felt like a vice constricting my lungs. No, from the outside, I maintained my calm demeanor, appropriately morose while exuding the strength my people required of their Don’s son. It was a position I alone would hold one day; I just hadn’t expected a test run so soon.

Nobody in the mafia could assume they would live to a ripe old age and die peacefully, surrounded by those they loved. No, in our world, death lurked around every corner, taking indiscriminately to satisfy its thirst for souls. One could only hope to outsmart it long enough to get a little time with those they loved.

Because, eventually, everyone came face-to-face with death.

Every funeral reminded me of my mortality, of life’s fleeting existence in eternity. It brought back the memory of every loved one I’d lost to death’s embrace, every soul I obediently lit a candle for when I knelt at the altar. It wasn’t all an act. My mother had taken every chance she had to pass on her religion to her children, and part of me still hoped there was some heavenly reward on the other side for those of us who survived the shitstorm of life. I wanted to believe my mother rested peacefully there. She deserved it after living through life with my father and suffering a violent end.

I gulped, trying to keep the lump that clogged my throat from choking me. It was all in my head.

I can get through this. I must.

There was no failing at my duty to the family. No breaking down when all eyes looked to me for guidance. Emotionalism was weakness, and weakness was vulnerability. Vulnerability led to mistakes, and that resulted in death.

All paths led to death.

My thoughts were dark, much like whatever was left of my soul. I wondered whether a soul could wither and perish even while the body it inhabited lived.

The priest prayed for the departed, and I took slow breaths, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest as he sprinkled holy water on the grave. As the head of the family, it was my duty to toss the first white rose into the grave. I stepped forward, plucking a flower from the silver vase and feeling the cold green stem between my thumb and forefinger. I said a silent prayer and crossed myself, then dropped the bloom, the white petals a stark contrast to the shiny black coffin.

Turning away, I stood to the side and greeted the mourners as they left.

“Mr. Neretti,” a woman in black said tearfully as she gripped my hand and kissed my knuckles like a king of old. To them, I was as good as royalty.

I waved off whatever she was about to say and nodded slowly, pressing my lips into a flat line and hoping it resembled a grateful, encouraging smile. It satisfied the woman, who offered me a nod in return. And so it went for the next quarter hour, subdued greetings, sympathy, and meaningless nods to placate watery smiles.

I sighed when I was finally free to leave, my men Filippo and Stefano wisely silent as they trailed behind me, climbing in the front of the blacked-out SUV while I buckled into the back seat. Security was like another layer I put on every morning before leaving the house. You could skip the windbreaker, but forgetting armed guards would be reckless. I’d gotten used to it over the years, the constant companions I couldn’t befriend because you never knew who might turn against you in a position like mine.

So many people within the organization had aspirations of rising as high as possible, and they would do so by whatever means possible. I wasn’t naïve; I knew some would gladly turn on me at the slightest opportunity. My father ruled through fear and brutality. I could only hope that when it was my turn, I could restructure and find those whose loyalty was freely given out of heartfelt dedication rather than fear of consequence.

That didn’t mean I would suffer betrayal. I could be just as ruthless as my father. He’d trained me to fill his shoes, after all. Anything he could do, I could probably do better. Except disregard all life. I’d never quite reached his level of apathy, especially concerning women and children. It was a tiny bit of my moral compass that hadn’t successfully been recalibrated.

When the SUV pulled up in front of my father’s red brick monstrosity of a home, I let myself out and let my men rush to beat me to the door so they could hold it open. Couldn’t let the prince of the Chicago mafia touch a doorknob with his precious hands.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Stefano asked as I made my way toward the central staircase.

“No more planned outings today,” I tossed over my shoulder. Halfway up the stairs, I remembered my schedule and paused long enough to add, “Cosimo should be by later. Send him to my office.”

Stefano nodded. “Got it, boss.”

I continued to the silent second level. The house was too quiet since my mother died. There was no female chitter in the kitchen where she used to chat with our housekeeper Martina while they cooked together. No more fresh flowers. No more seasonal décor that she took so much pride in, saying it made our old house feel more like a home.

For a little while after Mamma’s death, my sister-in-law Mia sent fresh flowers to the house every week. It was Mamma who had made the big brick building feel like home, though; a few pretty plants could never replace her. Mia stopped with the flowers after the shooting at Romeo’s wedding. I guess watching your husband bleed out on the floor in front of the altar made the little things seem insignificant.

I shook my head, refusing to let images of Niccolò’s body, pale, lifeless, and stained with blood, linger in my mind. It would only lead to more nightmares, and enough regrets plagued the few hours I slept.

What I needed was a shower to rinse the taint of the day—of my life—from my body. I turned down the hall to the right of the top of the stairs leading to the wing opposite my father’s. Moving out hadn’t been an option for me when I reached adulthood. As the heir to the Neretti empire, endless expectations were placed on me. When my five younger siblings left the nest, their former rooms were converted back into guest rooms and my office.

A little over a year ago, my mother had finally redecorated the room that had belonged to my youngest sister, Bianca. Instead of all the frilly, girly shit she’d grown up with, it was now decorated in airy neutrals.

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