1
ALEX
Ihope no one throws me a funeral when I die.
They’re tedious, expensive, and frankly, artificial. About half the people in attendance are there out of obligation, and a quarter never even liked the person. You think I want Bethany The Bitch fromhigh schoolweeping into a snotty tissue over me because we shared the same home room? No. Don’t fucking bother.
Maybe I’m just in a bad mood or maybe I’m bitter. All I know is right now the last thing I care about in the whole world is Syrus Gruco’s death.
I happen to be in that twenty-five percent. Only in this case, atthisfuneral, it has to be more like ninety. I wonder how many people will be there today. How many associates and soldiers will sit among the congregation with sullen faces over a man who never cared they existed.
I bet they hate him as much as I do.
I frown as I turn onto the street for the church. Hate isn’t the right word. In truth, I don’t know anything about the man. I’ve never met him. But he’s a crime lord. Well,was. How good of a guy could he have been?
My frown deepens and I squint at the sparse parking lot as I pull my ten-year-old Bug into the lot. I glance at the dashboard clock and see it’s 10:24AM. Six minutes before the funeral is supposed to start.
Where the hell is everyone?
I park my car and kill the engine before swiping my phone from the cupholder. I pull up the message from my dad giving me the address to the church and make sure I’m at the right place. I am.
Did I miss it?
God, that’d be great.
I click on my dad’s contact and hit call. The dial tone hums in my ear and I tilt my head back against the headrest. My dad answers on the third ring.
“Hello?” he says in his deep Russian accent.
“Where are you?”
“Home. Getting ready for the funeral.”
“What?” My brow furrows and I pull the phone from my ear and tap to get to my messages again. The time he gave me was ten-thirty.
“Are you at the church?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m at the church. You told me to be here by ten-thirty.”
“I expected you to be at least half an hour late.” There’s a rustling sound and then he comes back on the line. “Look at you, three minutes early.”
My jaw clenches, and I put a fist to my mouth.
“Alexa, are you there?”
I drop my fist. “Yes, I’m here.”And stop calling me that. It sounds like he’s talking to an Amazon product. “What time is this thing?”
“Thisthing? This is the funeral of a very important man. One important to us, and one especially important to our merging family. You will show respect.”
I wince. Not at my dad’s disapproving tone. That much I’m used to. But I wish he wouldn’t talk about our ‘merging family’. As if that’s truly what my marriage will bring. It’s more of a business transaction than anything else, and I have thirty-six days before it becomes real. I still have time to pretend it isn’t.
“Paolo should be there in half an hour to forty-five minutes. Wait in the parking lot and go in with him,” Dad commands.
My face heats, and I end the call without another word. At some point today I’m sure I’ll be reprimanded for that, but I don’t know how. What else could he possibly take from me that’s worth more than my freedom?
I toss the phone in the cupholder and lean across the passenger seat to yank open the glovebox. I grasp a lighter and the old film canister, pop off the top and shake the stashed joint into my hand.
I wouldn’t call myself a pothead. Before last month I only used weed recreationally on occasion, but I’m finding it does a beautiful job calming down my anxiety.