Chapter 93

Chapter Ninety-Three

Matteo’s hand remained steady and firm on Genevieve’s shoulder as the priest solemnly recited passages from the Bible. His gaze swept across the crowd gathered to pay their respects to Joe and Willy. Though not brothers by blood, the two had shared an unbreakable bond—partners on every assignment, working so seamlessly together it was as if they were twins separated at birth. Fate had cruelly intertwined their ends, but not in the way anyone had expected. Two bullets to the back of the head, execution style, was a far cry from the destiny they might have imagined.

As the priest’s voice echoed from the Old Testament, Matteo’s eyes lingered on the two caskets resting above the freshly dug, perfectly rectangular graves. It was barely three months since he had stood in this same cemetery, witnessing another grim ceremony. Back then, he had been the one at the forefront, vowing revenge with fire in his eyes. Now, he felt the gentle pressure of Genevieve’s hand sliding over his, curling around his wrist for support. Without hesitation, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. The simple act of touching her had become a reflex, a muscle memory ingrained deep within him. Her hand tightened around his, and she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief he had brought—a handkerchief his mother had given him at his own father’s funeral.

A heavy sigh escaped Matteo’s lips as he shifted his gaze to the two families seated in the front rows. Both were shattered, torn apart by the violent way his own family had made its fortune. Willy had left behind two young daughters, a devoted wife, siblings, a loving mother, and a stern father. All of them stared at the casket with a burning hatred, as if they already knew who was responsible and were waiting for justice to be served. Joe’s family was far smaller in number; only his sister, Amelia, had come.

Tears streamed down Amelia’s cheeks, and she lacked the strength to wipe them away. Joe had been homeless, lost to heroin addiction, until Frankie had found him and brought him into the fold. Joining the mafia after all the pain he’d caused his family hadn’t healed old wounds. Instead, it had only deepened the anger and fear that lingered between them.

Amelia was the one who never abandoned him. She would be the one to receive compensation for his death, though Matteo knew that money could never ease the family’s pain.

Frankie shifted uneasily beside him, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. Matteo shot him a sideways glance. Frankie was Matteo’s right-hand man, the vital link between him and their men—a fierce advocate who always had their backs. That was why, when Frankie had arrived to escort Genevieve and Matteo to the funeral, the two men had exchanged a hug and a slap on the back, as if Matteo’s earlier blow to Frankie’s skull—hard enough to cause a concussion—had never happened.