Underboss (With Me in Seattle Mafia 1)

“Good point.” I wink at him and then glance over my shoulder. It looks like someone is watching us.

I do a double-take, and the person is gone.

Huh. I must just be on edge today. My emotions are all over the place, and I’m keyed up. That’s all.

Nothing to worry about.

“Okay, this is…interesting.” I stop next to a large concrete casket covered in moss. But coming out of the top are two arms with the hands touching, as if two people are buried here, holding hands even in death.

“I don’t think I want to be buried like that,” Carmine says thoughtfully.

“You don’t think it’s romantic?”

He glances down at me. “Do you?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of macabre, but it’s also kind of sweet.”

We wander around some more and see the graves of Chopin, Oscar Wilde, and other artists. The memorials are absolutely stunning.

Then we turn a corner, and behind a chain-link fence is the grave of Jim Morrison.

“It’s a shame they had to close it off because of vandals,” I say. “But still cool to see.”

“Do you like The Doors?”

“Sure.” I shrug and glance back.

The same man is there again.

“I think—”

“Yep, I saw him. We’ll find a more private spot and confront him.”

I nod and, hand in hand, we walk down a road in the cemetery that looks as if it belongs in New Orleans with beautiful aboveground mausoleums.

“These are beautiful.”

“It’s amazing how different every part of the cemetery is.”

“I agree.”

I glance back but don’t see the man following us any longer. But just as we turn a corner, he walks out from behind a crypt, a knife in his hand.

“Get in here,” he hisses. “Now. Don’t make a scene.”

Carmine squeezes my hand, and we follow him into an open mausoleum. We slip inside, and he shuts the door.

“Who the hell are you?” Carmine asks, but the man strikes out with the knife, and I take out his knee.

He crumples to the ground, but he lashes out with the blade again.

Carmine punches him, then picks him up and holds him by the collar. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You’re going to die today,” the man growls, but before he can wave the knife again, I bend his hand back and take it from him, then press my gun to his head.

“Answer the damn question.”

His eyes jitter back and forth between Carmine and me.

“You’re not exactly discreet,” Carmine says, his voice perfectly calm but hard as stone. “Either you wanted us to see you, or you’re shitty at this job.”

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t think so.” Carmine knees him in the stomach, sending him to the ground once more, wheezing. We circle him slowly.

“Who sent you?”

“I’m not telling you shit.”

I smile sweetly and squat next to him. “Oh, yeah, you are. Because if you don’t, you won’t leave this place alive. You’ll spend all of eternity here with the…”—I check the name on the crypt next to me—“the Bettencourts. I’m sure they’re nice people. And there’s plenty of room here for you. You like to snuggle with corpses, don’t you? I mean, they’ve been here since…”

I recheck the tomb.

“Since 1928. They’re probably nice and decayed by now.”

He looks green; like he’s about to throw up.

“I won’t ask nicely again,” Carmine says.

“Richard hired me to follow you,” he snaps. “I’ve been tailing you since you were in Denver. I’m just supposed to keep an eye on you and report back.”

My gaze flies to Carmine’s, and I stand to talk to him.

“How does he not know that Rich is dead?” I murmur.

Carmine shakes his head and then looks down at the man and curses. “Are you…”—he waves his hands around—“crying?”

The man is just sitting there, weeping.

“There’s no crying in the mafia.”

“Why are you quoting movie lines?”

He turns to me. “Because there’s no crying. He’s crying.”

“Yes, I know.”

We both turn back to him and swear.

“Fucking hell.”

He’s already seizing, foaming at the mouth. “He took a pill.”

“He’d rather die than give information,” Carmine agrees, and we watch until he stops jerking.

“What now? We can’t leave him like this. Someone will find him. A groundskeeper or someone.”

“We do what you suggested. Open that crypt and put him in there with the nice Battencourts.”

I raise a brow. “Ew.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll help.” First, I poke my head out the door to make sure we haven’t drawn a crowd. That would be uncomfortable.

But no one is even about.

“It’s clear.”

Carmine nods and opens the tomb. We both look down at the man.

“Wow, he looks good for being dead for almost one hundred years.”

“The embalming did its job,” Carmine agrees. “Nice suit, too.”

“Well, this is a nice mausoleum. They had money.” We turn back to our stiff. Carmine grabs his shoulders, and I take his feet, and we maneuver him into the burial chamber. “He just fits.”

“No one will find him for a long time.” We close the lid and have to push down for it to settle. “If ever.”