It hung in the air between us anyway.
Just fix your makeup.
And clothes.
Put on a brave face.
Not just for my son.
But the family.
For him.
Romeo Sinacore.
Because they could never know—that Tristian hadn’t died an honorable death—but one of a rat.
How could you? My heart screamed.
How?
Betrayal hit me square in the chest as I looked away from Romeo’s perfect jawline and stared into the giant foyer mirror.
“Give me ten minutes,” I whispered to my own reflection.
Romeo stared at me through the mirror, his eyes drinking me in with an intensity that was impossible to look away from.
He nodded once and then left as Naz continued chattering on and on about how to make the perfect sandwich. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I walked down the hall, feeling more zombie than human.
I made it into the master bathroom, shut the door behind me, and then moved toward the mirror. I leaned against the porcelain sink; with shaking hands, I quickly turned on the water and splashed some onto my face. My makeup drawer was to the left, Tristian’s drop kit had always been on the right; we’d shared a life of perfect harmony for nearly six years.
Unless it was about Romeo.
Our last fight was one I’d never forget. I shivered at the mere thought of it.
His need to prove himself had been his downfall.
Why?
How?
What possessed him to even go down that road, knowing what he knew about the family? He made a choice and sacrificed his family in the process, and for what? Pride?
He’d been the perfect husband.
Father.
And he’d died a betrayer’s death.
Nothing made sense.
Had he been lying this entire time?
Nobody was that good—least of all, an accountant who cooked the family’s books and hosted cookouts every summer for his employees.
Not Tristian.
I was too afraid to ask Romeo for details—but I knew this, I wouldn’t want someone like Romeo after me.
They were dead before he even found them.
So I knew, regardless, Tristian’s death would be avenged because they were sending the Grim fucking Reaper after them.
And he’d send them to Hell.
With a grin on his face.
It ended up taking me longer than ten minutes to fix my makeup and change into another simple black dress.
I held my head high as I made my way out of the en suite and down the hall to where the rest of the reception was being held.
People were in shock.
Talking in low whispers.
What did this mean for The Famiglia?
Had the Russians been behind it?
The Petrov boss, Valerian, had attended the funeral and had seemed devastated at the loss. He was ruthless, but he was loyal to all the Italians, which meant it had to be someone on the inside.
I gave my head a shake; I wasn’t going to solve his murder today, or possibly ever—that was where I relied on Romeo. As much as I loathed him—he was good at his job—too good.
I made my way into the kitchen. Wine bottles lined the granite countertops.
Typical Italians.
Someone dies? We drink.
Someone’s born? We drink.
It’s a Tuesday? We drink.
“Naz?” I rounded the corner and nearly choked on my tongue as Romeo sat at Naz’s little Fisher-Price dinner table, his knees knocking the cheap plastic, red crayon in hand. Naz stuck his tongue out between his lips in concentration as they both colored in silence.
“Uncle Romeo, why do you use red all the time?”
“Oh, I’m sure one day you’ll know…” Romeo smirked and then held it up. “Trade you for the pink?”
Naz stared at the red, then at the pink in his hand. “No deal.”
“I’ll up it by one green.” Romeo dug around the crayon box and pulled out a green.
“I love green!” Naz held out his hand. “Pleeeeeease?”
“Please, what?”
Naz rolled his eyes. “Please, favorite uncle?”
“There it is.” Romeo handed him the green, then took the pink and started adding to whatever masterpiece he was working on.
Naz started scribbling something and looked over. “Mama! Where were you? I looked! I got scared, and then Uncle Romeo said you needed to put on lipstick!”
Leave it to Naz to be the only human in existence capable of putting a smile on my face during my husband’s funeral reception. “Uncle Romeo was right,” I pointed to my mouth. “What do you think?”
“Pretty,” Naz giggled; his jet-black hair fell around his ears, his clear blue eyes were identical to his fathers; it was ridiculous how gorgeous he was at five years old.
Ridiculous and terrifying.
“Do I get kisses then?” I knelt.
“Only two.” Naz crossed his arms. “Because I’m a man now.”
“True.” I winked and pointed to my cheek.
He reached up with his grubby hands and held my head, then kissed my cheek twice. “Okay, Uncle Romeo’s turn!”
My eyes widened in horror.
Romeo’s coloring crayon broke in half falling from his fingertips and rolling onto the ground.
Was he thinking about it too?
That night so long ago.
Where I’d finally snapped.