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“They will begin seating in twenty minutes, sir. If you need more time, please just let us know.”
Dario nodded. Moving through the entranceway, he pushed on the heavy double door and entered the main hall of the church. Before him, at the end of a flower-lined aisle, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, lay the casket. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and started down the aisle.
They’d been married in this church. He’d stood where the foot of the casket now was, and watched as she walked down the aisle. She’d smirked at him, amused by all of the pomp and circumstance. The two of them had been the only ones in the crowded church to know the truth—that their marriage was a sham, their love a façade, but their vows … at least the ones they had said … those had been meant.
In sickness and in health.
Till death do us part.
He slowly climbed the steps and stopped at the open casket, looking down at her. His throat tightened and he reached out, gripping the edge of the mahogany. His vision blurred and he swallowed hard, fighting to maintain composure.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You begged me to stay and I just—” His words broke off and he searched her face, so perfect, so serene. She looked untouched, her hair artfully arranged to hide the exit wound, her makeup simple and elegant. He thought of her in the shower, the way she had clung to him, her pride abandoned, her desperation coating every plea.
She had left that shower and gone to talk to Bell. What had she planned to say? What would have been that outcome? Where had her mind been?
He knew how she had looked, in that last glance she gave him before she left. Disappointed. Hurt. Thirteen years together, and that had been their final moment. It broke his heart.
“Oh, Gwen.” He lowered his head and closed his eyes, fighting to hold onto a memory, a good memory, of the two of them. “I miss you so much. I hope, wherever you are, that you are at peace.” He tried to feel her presence, tried to connect with the perfect and silent body before him, but all he felt was emptiness. Loneliness.
She had been, for a third of his life, his partner. His best friend. His confidante. His sounding board. She had been the first person he saw each morning, and the first number he dialed when something happened.
And now, she was gone.
He tried to pick up her hand, his chest constricting at the stiff set of it. Releasing the hand, he attempted to compose himself. Looking up to the arched ceilings, angels painted along their curves, he told her how much he loved her. He begged her for her forgiveness, and he said the first of a lifetime of goodbyes.
Behind him, the doors to the inner church creaked open, a thin man in a robe entering. “Mr. Capece, would you like more time?”
He shook his head tightly, struggling to tamper his emotions, his façade of composure settling into place. “No. You can begin to bring them in. Thank you.”
Turning, he bent over and gave her forehead one final kiss, hating that she no longer smelled like his Gwen. Hating her father for stealing her life, her innocence, her chance at a real future of her own choosing. Hating that … his throat tightened. He hated that this lonely cold moment was their goodbye.
She had deserved better.
Twenty
The weight of the funeral was washed away by the open air in the Lamborghini. He tossed Bell the keys, and she drove. Her hesitancy was cute, her exit out of The Majestic’s parking garage cautious, the engine over-revving as she shifted into second. But once she got the hang of the gears, her confidence grew to a level that was impressive. She wove around slower traffic, the car responding to her cues, her smile widening with each passing minute. Her beauty was mesmerizing, and he relaxed in the passenger seat, stealing glances at her as she focused on the road.
“This exit.”
He pointed and she downshifted. The top was down, the wind whipping her hair, and he was glad he’d left the security back at the hotel, opting to take the convertible instead of the Rolls. They needed this, the time between just the two of them, the normality. They were a man and a woman, house-hunting. Utterly normal. Squint past the exorbitant luxuries and recent dangers, and they could be any other new couple. Maybe, like any other new relationship, they could survive this stage and move on to the next.
“Right or left?” she asked.
“Left, then your first right.”
She took her eyes off the road and gave him a quick smile, and it was a brief glimpse of the future. Her tan skin glowing against the neon orange of the Lambo. Her sunglasses perched on the top of her head. Her smile loose and relaxed. Once they moved in, he’d give her a housewarming present and fill one slot in its garage with this car.
