Chapter 117: A funeral in Hell.

Today is Nico’s burial.

So here I am, standing inside the church he attended when he was alive, listening to a priest talk about a man who deserves absolutely none of the kindness coming out of his mouth.

I make the sign of the cross when the priest instructs the congregation to do so.

Not because I believe in any of this shit, I’m not a Godly person, despite my mother’s best attempts at raising us in a God-fearing manner. She dragged us to church every Sunday when we were children, made us memorize prayers, and threatened to wash our mouths with soap whenever either of us said something particularly offensive.

It never worked.....i learned how to curse before I learned how to pray properly.

And as for the whole religion thing, I’ve never really understood the point. Why bother trying to earn a place in heaven when I’m practically guaranteed a special spot in hell?

There’s too much blood on my hands for me to entertain the idea that I’ll ever make it through those pearly gates. If I somehow managed to get in, I’d probably stain the entire place with my presence.

Imagine the look on Angel Micheal’s face when he realizes he’s accidentally admitted the Sanchez Don.

I’d pay good money to see that.

At least I’m self-aware...Unlike Nico Moretti, whose list of sins was probably long enough to fill an entire book of the dead. The man had enough enemies to populate a small country, and his personal life was a fucking disaster.

Yet here I am, listening to a priest describe him as a loving man who brought kindness and generosity into the lives of everyone he encountered.

I sigh and roll my eyes when the priest launches into another story about Nico’s supposed charitable nature.

Charitable...That’s a new one.

I wonder whether any of the people he threatened, extorted, or destroyed are sitting in this congregation. Perhaps I should ask the priest if he knows about the men Nico had buried in unmarked graves.

But no. That would be considered rude and apparently, funerals are supposed to be occasions for remembering the good in people.

Even when there’s very little good to remember.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other and glance at the polished wooden casket at the front of the church.

There he lies.

A dead Nico.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at my mouth, I could get used to the sight.

I’m only here because Jeremiah insisted I attend. According to him, my absence would be interpreted as an insult to Nico’s family, and the last thing we need right now is another reason for them or the police to come after us.

For once, I agreed with my Consigliere.

Jeremiah isn’t always wrong. He’s simply irritating enough to make me wish he were.

Besides, the police are already on my radar. Or perhaps I’m on theirs.

Either way, I expect them to come knocking after what happened at the gala. They might even decide to attend the funeral themselves, considering how many influential people have gathered here. If they do, seeing me standing beside Nico’s casket might be good for appearances.

Look at me, paying my respects to a fallen rival, a grieving associate, a man whose death has absolutely nothing to do with me.

It’s practically a performance and if I’m being honest, seeing the bastard lying in a box is a bonus.

Win-win.

I blame father for this shit.....he didn’t work to put the police in his pockets.. our pockets.

Now that responsibility has landed squarely on my shoulders.

I blame him for that.

Father spent years building his empire, cultivating relationships, and making sure the right people owed him favors. But he apparently couldn’t be bothered to ensure that the police department remained sufficiently cooperative.

Now I have to deal with investigators asking questions about dead men, suspicious circumstances, and bodies that keep appearing where they shouldn’t.

Wonderful.

I need to find a way to get ahead of them, I need to know what they have, who they’re talking to, and whether anyone from the gala has decided to become an enthusiastic witness.

I have more problems to deal with.....One particularly stubborn wife, for example.

I’m deep into my thoughts when the first gunshot rings out. For one fraction of a second, my brain refuses to process the sound.

Then another shot cracks through the church and another.

Screams erupt around me as People duck, stumble over pews, and scramble toward the exits. The priest abandons his sermon halfway through a sentence, and somewhere to my left, glass shatters.

"Don!"

My underboss moves before I can react. He charges toward me, grabs me around the torso, and drives us both to the ground.

My back slams against the floor hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

His body lands over mine, shielding me as bullets tear through the air above us.

"Stay down!" he barks.

I grit my teeth as another burst of gunfire rips through the church.

I hear people crying. Someone is praying loudly in Spanish. The entire congregation has dissolved into chaos, and the priest is crouched behind the altar, clutching whatever holy object he managed to grab on his way down.

For a brief, ridiculous moment, I wonder whether God has decided to answer my earlier thoughts by sending me straight to hell.

Then I feel Fernando’s weight pressing against my chest. The bastard is using his body as a shield.

I appreciate the loyalty.

Fernando has earned his place beside me through years of bloodshed and unwavering service. He’s one of the few men I trust without hesitation, and I know he’d take a bullet for me without thinking twice.

But I won’t let him die for me.....not when we have a chance of getting out of this alive.

"Fernando."

"Stay down, Don!"

"Get the fuck off me."

"Sir, they’re shooting at us!"

"No shit!"

I shove against his chest, trying to push him away. He resists for a second, his expression furious.

Then another spray of bullets tears through the pew beside us.

"Fuck!" he snarls.

I use the distraction to roll out from beneath him.

"Find cover," I order. "Then we return fire."

He reaches for me, but I’m already looking around, searching for the source of the gunfire and somewhere to take cover.

That’s when I see him. Standing near the entrance, surrounded by armed men, is Nico’s son.

The little bastard is pointing a gun directly at me.

His face is twisted with rage, his eyes fixed on mine as if he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment.

Well. Isn’t that fucking convenient?

I should have known Nico’s family wouldn’t let their Don’s burial pass without a little entertainment.

I draw my own weapon.

"Stay down!" I command Fernando.

Then I push to my feet and sprint toward one of the massive stone pillars lining the church.

Gunshots explode behind me.

I hear Fernando shouting my name, but I don’t turn around.

I make it halfway to the pillar when a sharp, burning pain tears through my shoulder. Then warmth spreads beneath my shirt.

I stagger and look down at the blood spilling from me.

My blood.

I press a hand against the wound, my teeth clenching as another shot cracks through the church.

It’s the same shoulder, the fucking same shoulder my wife shot me in.

"FUUUUUCK!"

That hurt like a bitch!