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.

Feeling Matteo’s gaze, Frankie looked over and gave a questioning glance, wincing as the cut on his cheek reopened. Matteo shook his head silently. He was lucky not to be in a coma after what he’d said, but he wasn’t wrong about any of it.

The priest’s voice fell silent as he clutched the Bible to his chest, signaling the start of the caskets’ descent. Matteo nudged Frankie, and they split, each moving to opposite sides of the crowd, clutching bouquets of red and white roses. As the caskets slowly lowered into the earth, Matteo and Frankie each dropped a rose of every color onto the dark wood. Then, they turned and handed the bouquets to the grieving families.

Matteo’s eyes met those of the man who had raised Willy. His jaw was clenched, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Matteo knelt on one knee, his voice low and steady. “The sacrifice your son made will never be forgotten by anyone here… especially by me. I promise you, I will find those responsible. They will suffer, and they will feel the same pain your family feels in this moment. Mr. Costanza, I am truly sorry.”

Willy’s father gave a sharp nod and accepted the bouquet. His wife clung to his arm as if it were a lifeline, standing with him as they approached their son’s casket. Together, they took turns tossing roses into the grave that was about to swallow him.

Matteo glanced toward Frankie, who was supporting Amelia’s weight. She stared down at the open grave, and in one fluid, heart-wrenching motion, she threw all the roses at once, scattering them across her brother’s casket. It was over.

Returning to Genevieve’s side, Matteo placed his hand once more on her shoulder as the crowd began offering condolences. Gen tried to rise, but Matteo’s grip remained firm. She had fallen asleep in the car the night before, only to awake in pain from her implant.

“Matteo,” she whispered softly. “I need to go give my sympathies.”

He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “You will. But wait until the line thins out. There’s no need for you to stand for half an hour while you wait.”

Just then, Matteo noticed a man lingering by the trees near the road. Their eyes met, and the man gave a subtle wave. Matteo sighed and stood as Frankie appeared beside him.

“O’Brien’s here,” Frankie informed him.

“I know,” Matteo replied.

“O’Brien?” Genevieve’s voice held a note of disbelief. “Matteo, this is a funeral.”

“Some things can’t wait, Genevieve,” Matteo said quietly. “What did the doctor say?”

Gen exhaled in frustration. “Don’t put weight on my leg.”

Matteo bent down again, a teasing glint in his eyes. “And mine?”

Crossing her arms defiantly, she shot back, “If you’re not beside me, I better be next to Leo.”

Leo nodded approvingly as he gently caressed Lucy’s stomach. Lucy, however, was far from a fan of Matteo—made worse by having to attend yet another funeral for men in the same organization as her husband. Since the hospital, she hadn’t looked at or spoken to Matteo, and he was perfectly fine with that. His focus was on his own woman.

“I’ll be right back,” Matteo said to Gen, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

As he walked away, he heard her muttering behind him, then, “Leo, I’m just going to…”

Matteo spun sharply. “Genevieve Sinclair, if you leave that chair, I swear I’ll make sure your cheeks are redder than they are now,” he warned loudly enough for the nearby crowd to hear.

Gen’s mouth fell open in shock, her cheeks instantly flushing with color. Matteo ignored the snickers around them and turned on his heel, moving forward with his mission. From his pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and fumbled with his lighter as he approached O’Brien.

“Beautiful service,” O’Brien remarked as Matteo reached him.

“Thanks for coming,” Matteo replied, exhaling a plume of smoke above their heads.

“Happy to be here. Especially after all I heard this morning through the grapevine. You’ve got one fearless woman. From a one-night stand in the elevator to confronting a Don on her own? Impressive. I need someone like that,” O’Brien said with a whistle.

Matteo ignored the jab about Genevieve. He wasn’t ready to focus on that right now—not his anger, not his fear.

“I want to talk about Galante,” Matteo said, steering the conversation back on track.

“I thought so. Is he the bastard targeting my men?” O’Brien asked.

“I don’t think so. I had a woman inside Galante’s inner circle. She never mentioned any attacks on the tracks.”

“What makes you think Galante would tell her?” O’Brien pressed.

Matteo took another drag. “Ah, I get it now.” He chuckled. “One of those plants. You have to tell me where you find these women. Mine always disappoint.”

“She was smart. She never revealed herself. A professional. No ties to my family. But someone told Galante—someone in my own ranks. Plus, Genevieve got a read on him. He’s not behind the hits on the tracks. He lacks the resources for that kind of operation. The last thing he wants is to damage partnerships I have. He thinks he can just take me out and pick up the patronage.”

“Ah, family. At least we have them to lean on,” O’Brien said with a half-smile.

Matteo finished his cigarette and lit another. He noticed Genevieve struggling to stand nearby. Their eyes met, and he saw hers roll back in pain. He pointed down, urging her to sit back.

“You have informants in the FBI, right?” he asked.

“Only one.”

“I’m looking into Luca Guerra.”

“The hotshot up-and-comer in LA?”

“The very same. I can’t get a clear lead on him. I traced his connections to the LAPD, but the trail went cold fast.”

“You think he’s tied to a bigger organization?”

“He has to be.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Under one condition,” O’Brien said.

Matteo sighed, taking a drag before turning his full attention to O’Brien. “What’s the condition?”

“I want Bella back.”

Matteo snorted. “She came to me, remember?”

O’Brien shrugged. “Came to you, was ordered to—you know how it goes.”

“You think I didn’t know? Come on, O’Brien,” Matteo said, shaking his head with a smirk.

“Is that why you never slept with her? See, I need your help finding better infiltrators.”

Matteo laughed. “Family secrets, I’m afraid. Besides, I don’t mix business with pleasure. You got that wrong.”

“Oh, really?” O’Brien’s eyes flicked to the woman Leo was helping stand to meet the family. Genevieve stuck her tongue out at Matteo, and he rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

“I got involved with that ink before it belonged to the company,” Matteo explained.

“Well, we both know Bella won’t come back on her own. She’s too comfortable where she is.”

Matteo paused, pretending to consider the request. He had expected O’Brien to ask for Bella’s return—had even hoped for it. She was a constant thorn, a source of worry for Genevieve. But he couldn’t seem too eager; otherwise, O’Brien would just demand more.

“Give me a real name on Guerra. I’ll fire Bella and make sure she’s unemployable. She’ll have no choice but to run back into your pervy arms,” Matteo agreed, stalking off before O’Brien could ask for anything else.

He watched Genevieve lower herself into the chair beside Amelia, wrapping her arms tightly around the grieving woman. Tears slid down Genevieve’s cheeks as she closed her eyes, holding Amelia with a fierce grip that said she would take on any pain if it meant easing her sorrow.

Matteo stumbled toward the nearest chair and sank down heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a stone.