“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Grant looked at him quizzically. “It’s an honor to be a pallbearer, Grant. But it’s also … it’s tough. It stays with you. For a long time.”
Grant looked down at his hands, knowing immediately what his uncle referred to. Joe had been a pallbearer at Karita’s funeral, while twelve-year-old Grant watched from afar, too young to participate. Seventeen-year-old Logan and fifteen-year-old Carlo had joined Joe in carrying his mother’s coffin, though, along with three other men from the family. Grant had never felt more alone.
“I want it to stay with me,” he quietly responded.
In the narthex of the church, Angelo stood in the shadows and watched his son haughtily stare at the pews in front of him, a small smile on his face as he observed Grant conversing with Joe. Just as Carlo shifted forward, ready to pounce, Angelo stepped out and caught him by the elbow.
Surprised, Carlo hissed, “Let go.”
“I told you not to go anywhere near Grant,” Angelo said. “What part of maintain a low profile don’t you understand?”
Carlo’s eyes smoldered. He hated a low profile. He was the reason behind this funeral, and he craved the spotlight to showcase his cunning and bravery. Instead, he had to slink in the shadows. It was so unfair!
“Grant Pants has no fucking clue, padre,” Carlo reasoned. “He’s too blinded by his pussy tears to see what really happened.”
Angelo slid his firm grasp up his son’s arm a few inches and clutched the skin and bone there tightly. Carlo gasped and his father knew he’d located the scar tissue on his son’s arm—where he’d been shot twenty-two years ago, when he’d been ten years old. When he’d screwed everything up for Enzo.
“Grant has a college degree,” Angelo whispered.
Carlo clenched his teeth. This again. His father would never shut up about him dropping out of college.
“Don’t underestimate him. Once things settle down, he might figure out it was you.”
“He should be the one in prison, charged with murdering his brother,” Carlo grumbled. “Anyway, I can’t stay away from him if we carry the fucking casket together.”
“It would be too obvious if you backed out now, and that’s why you’re going to remain a pallbearer. But play it cool. That broad over there is the detective investigating the murder, remember?”
Carlo shifted his gaze and caught a glimpse of reddish-brown hair. The woman subtly scanned the funeral guests, taking in everything. Carlo swallowed hard.
“Unless you want to end up like Enzo, I suggest you take my advice,” Angelo hissed, squeezing the scar one last time before releasing his son’s elbow.
Carlo straightened his black suit-jacket and whispered, “Will Uncle Enzo be here today?”
Angelo sighed. “Word is he’s in solitary for hitting a guard—the one who told him his son was murdered.”
Carlo felt his neck tense, as if his uncle’s strong hands were holding him by the scruff of the neck like they had when he was ten, when Enzo found him in the Fanocelli house. Carlo’s one regret in murdering Logan was the possibility that Enzo might find out he was the killer. He knew he was a dead man if that ever happened.
“He’s going to miss his own son’s funeral,” Angelo muttered.
But Enzo’s grandson would not be missing the funeral. Ben entered at the rear of the church, a few steps ahead of his mother, who frowned when she saw her son making a beeline toward his relatives.
“Ben,” Angelo said. “Come è il mio favorite sixteen year old?”
Ben closed his tired eyes as his great-uncle wrapped him in his strong arms. “Fine.”
Carlo grabbed the boy next, thumping him on the back. “You haven’t been over to the compound all weekend, ragazzo.”
“Sorry,” Ben said, glancing furtively behind him as his mother approached.
“Ashley.” Angelo nodded respectfully at the blond-haired woman. “My condolences.”
She stared warily at the men, and Carlo added, “We have seats saved for you next to us.”
Ashley nervously wrung her hands. Meeting Angelo’s coal-black gaze, she pleaded, “Please, um, Godfather. Please give us some time. We need some time alone … some time to grieve.”
A flash of anger coursed through the Mafia don. Ben was part of the family—the only connection left to his beloved Logan, now that Carlo had so unceremoniously wiped his godson from this earth. But the fear and worry evident in Ashley’s begging blue eyes dissolved his anger into a feeling that bordered on sympathy. Angelo’s own son had caused Ashley and Ben such pain, and perhaps they deserved some time to recover.
“Of course, Ashley.” Angelo smiled and took a slight step backward. “We are here for you and Ben, though. Please know that.”
“Thank you.” Turning to her son, she gently urged, “C’mon, Ben.”
“But I want to sit with the family,” Ben argued with a twinge of whine.
Carlo jumped in. “Yeah, we need to stay together.”
Angelo placed his arm across Carlo’s chest. “It’s okay, Ben,” he assured him. “Go with your mother. We’ll see you after the mass.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then followed his mother down the center aisle.
Marilyn watched this interaction between the Barberi men, wishing she could’ve heard what they said. Her interviews with Angelo and Carlo Barberi had not been fruitful, and she sensed they were hiding something. Her investigation was at a standstill, and with each passing hour the odds of finding the killer decreased substantially. Former Lieutenant Adam Gottlieb, the officer who’d won money from Angelo’s club and had stashed it in the bar near Great Lakes, had been discharged from the Navy following Grant’s break-in, and no one had heard from him since. He was her only remaining lead, and it was turning up cold.
Swiftly passing, Ashley barely registered seeing the detective—the woman who had informed her and Ben of Logan’s death two days ago. She’d witnessed Ben begin to destroy their apartment upon learning of his father’s murder, furiously throwing books and vases and candles against the wall before collapsing to the floor in a heap, weeping uncontrollably.
Ashley blocked Ben’s breakdown from her mind as she moved toward the one man who seemed like a haven amidst the Barberi family. She had noticed his closely cropped black hair the moment she entered the church, and his presence calmed her immediately.
“Grant?” She approached his pew with her son in tow.
He glanced up and drew her into a hug. “Ashley.”
She melted into his strong arms, instantly comforted by his masculine sandalwood scent and tender yet firm hold. She then stepped back to allow uncle and nephew to reunite. They had not seen each other since Logan’s death.
Grant studied his nephew, and Ben felt a hitch in his throat upon meeting his uncle’s desolate stare. He averted his gaze, angrily stuffing his fists into his stupid black suit-jacket, feeling strangled by the even dumber black tie.