Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
The ceremony kicks off officially when the priest steps forward in his black robes and starts intoning the final rites in droning Latin. A hush falls over the crowd as everyone turns their focus to the gleaming coffin. Then comes the time for Salvatore to be lowered into the earth. I step forward on numb legs, and scoop up a fistful of cool, dry earth. I can feel the grit between my fingers as I let it fall. Goodbye, you piece of shit. The words feel satisfyingly revengeful in my mind.
A tiny smile tugs at my lips, but I hide it quickly, pressing my mouth into a thin line. Why shouldn’t I be happy? The noose around my neck has finally been untied. One by one, the rest of Salvatore’s family steps up—his horrible son, his sobbing mother, distant cousins, lieutenants. They all toss in handfuls of soil, the dirt pattering down like rain. The ceremony drags on a bit longer, more prayers, before it finally winds down. The crowd shifts restlessly as the priest closes his book.
I keep my expression icy, so no one approaches me. I don’t need any condolences or curious glances beyond the obligatory nods. I just want to go back to the estate, shed this suffocating dress, and figure out what comes next.
I spot Maria, our housekeeper, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her plump face streaked with genuine tears. She's been with the family forever, loyal to a fault, so I understand her pain. I fall into step beside her, and together we begin to head toward the line of sleek black limousines idling on the winding cemetery road, their engines purring softly.
We're almost there when a voice calls out, "Mrs. Greco."
Ugh… that name. I turn. It's the family lawyer, Bonafanti—short and balding, in a pinstriped suit that reveals his old-school Italian roots. His gold pinky ring glints as he hurries over.
Maria glances at me, then at him, and murmurs something about waiting in the car before slipping away, leaving us alone amid the scattering crowd. A mix of dread and anticipation twists in my chest. I've been avoiding this conversation all week—everything from this moment hinges on what he says.
What did Salvatore leave me? Or more likely, what didn't he?
"Viola, my dear," he starts, his voice smooth as olive oil. He offers a sympathetic pat on my arm, but it lingers a few seconds too long. "My deepest condolences. What a great loss. Your late husband was... a force. A real force.”
I note his use of my first name but keep my expression blank. "Thank you, Mr. Bonafanti.”
He glances around, his beady eyes darting over the thinning crowd of mourners drifting toward their cars. Then he clears his throat as if he's rehearsing the words in his head one last time. The air feels thicker now, charged with something unspoken, and I brace myself, my heart thudding a little harder against my ribs.
"I'll get right to it," he says, his voice dropping low. "Your husband... he didn't leave any provisions for you in the will."
The words land like a slap, sharp and stinging, even though a part of me— the cynical, guarded part that's survived four years in this cage— expected it.
He pauses, watching me, perhaps expecting tears or a gasp of shock, but I give him nothing.
"His explicit wish," he continues, adjusting his silk tie awkwardly, "was for you to return to your father’s house. He believed it was the best way to protect you."
Protect me? The phrase echoes in my head, absurd and infuriating. I nearly scoff, the sound building in my throat like a bitter laugh, but I bite it back, clenching my jaw until it aches. Shock mingles with the anger, a cold spike that sends my thoughts spinning. Protection? From what? "Protect me how?" I ask, my voice steady, but inside, the question burns.
Bonafanti leans in a fraction closer, his cologne wafting over me. It’s invasive, just like his gaze. "If he'd given you assets," he explains, his tone almost paternal, "bad people might come after you or your family. He understood that it truly will be better for you to start fresh under your father's roof. Salvatore thought of everything, you know. He cared about your safety."
Cared? I nearly laugh then, a bitter, derisive sound bubbling up from my chest that I swallow hard, forcing it down like bile. Even from the grave, the bastard manages to annoy me to no end. And this fool in front of me has been paid to twist his selfishness into some noble facade. Painting this as ‘care’? Please.
The real reason is as clear as day. Salvatore didn't want me independently wealthy. He wanted me to grow old in my father’s house, wearing the widow’s habit under the stern guardianship of my father. He wanted me dependent and diminished. A bird with clipped wings.