Chapter 8 - A Funeral Without a Lie
Quinn nearly did not attend the funeral. She stood outside the church in a black coat while bells marked the hour and wondered whether showing up would look like forgiveness. Mrs. Alvarez, beside her, said, “A funeral is not a contract.”
Quinn looked at her.
“You can attend and still be angry,” Mrs. Alvarez continued. “You can leave before the last hymn. You can stay for coffee. Dead people do not get to set the rules anymore.”
So Quinn went inside. She chose the last row because she wanted a door behind her and because choosing the seat herself mattered.
The funeral was small.
No closed casket story.
No invented certainty.
No crowd of men pretending Angelo Russo had been better than he was because death had made honesty impolite.
Dominic stood at the front and spoke for less than two minutes.
“My father was feared by many people,” he said. “Sometimes he confused that with being respected. I did too.”
The room shifted.
Quinn sat in the last row beside Mrs. Alvarez.
Vincent sat halfway between them and Dominic.
“He gave me some things,” Dominic continued. “A stubborn work ethic. Good hands with engines. The ability to sleep through thunderstorms.”
A few people smiled.
“He also caused harm I spent too long calling private family business.”
Nobody smiled now.
Dominic looked toward the last row.
“My sister is alive. Some of you were told otherwise. That lie was mine.”
Quinn lowered her eyes.
Vincent felt several heads turn.
Dominic did not use her as proof of his remorse.
He did not ask her to stand.
He simply said, “I abandoned her when she needed me. I have explanations. They are not repairs.”
Then he stepped away from the microphone.
That was all.
Afterward, in the church basement, men who had known Angelo for decades avoided Quinn because they did not know what language was safe.
One older man named Sal finally approached.
“You look like your mother,” he said.
Quinn’s face changed.
“Did you know her?”
“A little.”
He swallowed. “She asked me once if I could get you two kids out for a night. I told her I didn’t want trouble with Angelo.”
Quinn stared at him.
Sal looked down.
“I’ve thought about that answer a lot.”
Quinn did not comfort him.
“Good,” she said.
Then she walked away.
Vincent almost followed.
He stopped himself.
Outside, Dominic stood alone near the curb smoking a cigarette despite having quit ten years ago.
Vincent took it from his hand and crushed it under his shoe.
Dominic glared. “That was rude.”
“You smell terrible.”
For a moment they were seventeen again.
Then Dominic looked toward the church door.
“I don’t know what happens now.”
“With Quinn?”
“With anything.”
Vincent adjusted his coat.
“That may be the first accurate thing you’ve said all year.”
Dominic nodded.
For several days after the funeral, Dominic kept reaching for his phone to call Quinn and then stopping. He had spent years treating contact as proof of care. Now he practiced the more difficult version: caring without demanding access. On Sunday evening he sent one message. Hope work is okay. No need to answer. Quinn replied the next afternoon with a photograph of a supply cart whose front wheel had snapped off. Dominic wrote back, My greatest enemy. She sent a laughing emoji.
It was absurdly small. It was also the first exchange between them that did not orbit the past.
A month later he asked to step down from Vincent’s day-to-day security detail.
Not because Vincent demanded it.
Because Dominic said, “I don’t know who I am if my entire life is built around being useful to someone who isn’t my sister.”
Vincent hated the sentence because it exposed a dependency in both of them.
“You’re not leaving the organization,” Vincent said.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I’m taking the logistics office. Day shift. Fewer guns. More spreadsheets.”
Vincent stared.
“You hate spreadsheets.”
“I deserve something.”
That made Vincent laugh.
The change was not dramatic.
Nobody was punished publicly.
No empire fell.
Dominic simply stopped standing two feet behind Vincent everywhere he went.
And Vincent discovered he disliked how much emptier that felt.
That was his own work to do.
Quinn continued at Lakeshore.
She and Dominic exchanged one letter every few weeks.
Sometimes Quinn answered.
Sometimes she didn’t.
Dominic learned that silence was not always punishment.
Sometimes it was time.
In June, Vincent attended a hospital charity dinner and saw Quinn across the ballroom wearing a navy dress and a staff badge clipped discreetly near her waist.
She saw him too.
For one second both looked uncertain.
Then Quinn walked over.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
She sighed. “Vincent.”
“Better.”
She smiled.
“How’s the rosemary?”
“Alive.”
“Barely?”
“Don’t insult my horticultural progress.”
She laughed.
Then someone called her name from the volunteer table.
Quinn turned to go.
Vincent said, “You look happy.”
She paused.
“I’m less afraid.”
He nodded.
That was better than happy.
As she walked away, Vincent noticed something he had not seen before.
The scars were not visible.
But neither was she hiding them.
The dress simply had a back.
Not every choice had to be symbolic.
May you like
Sometimes a woman just wore what she wanted.
