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CHAPTER 1
Laszlo
The room is dark, and the only source of light comes from the small lamp above, shining on the face of a woman who died several days ago. Wendy Green is lying on the table, her skin grey, pale—and very much dead, which means I need to make her look alive and serene for the funeral tomorrow.
I glance at the makeup set, all the brushes lined in perfect order, and lift the cover. My family and my men don't question me anymore. It was odd for them at first, me working in the mortuary with my hands on corpses that can no longer complain or voice an opinion about why the hotshot Novak boss is personally giving them their best look for their last sendoff.
Everyone expressed their concern years ago when we opened the first funeral home, when I stared at the corpse of an old associate whose hand and chest had been blown apart by bullets. We didn't even have any staff then, so I told them I would take care of it myself.
My mother, Constantine and Rafe refused to come downstairs, but I felt at peace there, perhaps because of the quiet. Because I could hear myself think in the silence, as I busied myself with the dead. Each time I worked on a body, my heart rate picked up and I was so fucking excited to be the one to do this. So much, I had to keep doing it, over and over.
Since that first time, I have always been the one to get the job done. Prepare the dead for a dignified wake, then burial. That is my trademark.
I pick up the brush, open the powder container and start applying it to the woman's face. She has wrinkles everywhere, and a little powder spills on the metal table. I inhale sharply, telling myself to keep going, that I can clean it later, that first I need to sort this woman's face, cover the slowly decomposing skin, since the family has requested an open casket.
A bead of sweat tickles my brow as I gently stroke the brush over her cheeks. This is so fucking peaceful, being the caretaker of the dead, even when I was the one taking their life. The dead don't speak, don't argue. They don’t expect anything, make impossible demands. With them, I'm in my element.
But my ritual, the sacred peace and quiet I acquired so quickly, is broken by a knock on the door. I straighten instantly and a little powder drops on my sleeve.
"What did I tell you about interrupting while I'm working, Daniel?" I say, staring at the specks of powder on my clothing. My outfit is ruined now and I have to fucking change.
"You told me to inform you five minutes before the timer goes off on your roast duck, Laszlo," Daniel says, sounding bored. “You said if I forgot to do that you’d put me in the oven next to the ruined thing. Remember?” He yawns. I should be offended that he's not scared of me, but I suppose that’s fair. He's never seen the other side of me—the violent one—directed at him.
"I'll be there now. Just need to change," I tell him, and he leaves, shutting the door behind him. I put the powder and brush down, make sure the whole set is still aligned and perfectly positioned, then push Wendy inside the fridge and switch off the light. Wendy can stay here for a little while, and later I'll get back to her, to finish her off.
I chuckle to myself, thinking that was a nice little joke. Fuck, I'm hilarious sometimes.
I shake my head, then leave the mortuary.
I'm thirty-eight years old and my mother keeps telling me that I am too concerned with how things appear, and that includes my looks. She calls my obsession with control OCD, and I should get it checked out. She's wrong—this has nothing to do with that. I just like things in order, and the fact that I have powder on my light blue shirt is driving me up the wall.
The house is located in the Hudson Valley, outside of New York, specifically Bedford, a perfect moody setting for the business. When I bought it, the place had already been renovated into a funeral home, and the mortuary was in the basement. How lucky is that. This place always fascinated me, but my mother refused to live in it, and so did my father, but they visit often. We have five other funeral homes scattered around the state and beyond, too, but this one is my favourite.
I walk into my bedroom and remove my shirt. The reflection in the mirror doesn't disappoint me. I work out a lot and my hair is sleek, dark and curly, from my mother's Italian side of the family. Maybe I'm a cliché half-Italian mafia man in his thirties, but who fucking cares when I sleep like a baby at night?
I pull a new navy t-shirt on and head downstairs. Dolores passes me on the landing and gives me a smile.
"You look good in blue, Laszlo," she says.
"I look good in every colour, carissima," I tell her with a wink. She rolls her eyes at me and mutters something I cannot make out. She knows I like using Italian endearments with her to earn points in her eyes. I love her, she brought me up, and she knows I get a kick out of acting like an arrogant prick sometimes.
The garden smells like rosemary, roasted duck, and, if you pay attention, blood.
The table is set on the terrace the way I like it when I have guests—white cloth, candles even though the sun hasn't finished going to sleep, more silverware than any reasonable meal requires. My mother sits with her back to the roses, pearls on, wine already poured. My brother, Constantine, is on her left. Rafe, one of my innermost circle of trusted men and pretty much family, is filling the wine glasses right across from him. The servants come out of the house in a quiet line, carrying dishes, setting them down, disappearing again.
It's the tail end of September. The light goes early now and the air has turned; Dolores has had the torch heaters brought out and didn’t need asking.
On the far side of the lawn, past the rose beds we feed with the ashes of those who wrong us, a man kneels by the fountain with his wrists tied behind his back. Two of my men stand over him. From here his face is just a dark smear. Up close, I know, it's worse.
I take my seat at the head of the table and shake out my napkin.
"Laszlo." My mother doesn't look up from her glass. "Why is there a man covered in blood on the other side of my son's garden?"
"Because he stabbed Nicko, Mamma."
Rafe stops pouring mid-glass. Constantine's knife stills against his plate. Why he feels the need to bring his own fucking blade to a meal is beyond me.
My mother's hand comes up to her necklace. "Nicko."
