Sergio's funeral was a lie from beginning to end.
The official story: tragic car accident on the Long Island Expressway. The closed casket: necessary due to the "extensive injuries."
The grieving family: all wearing black and pretending they hadn't watched Dante put a bullet in his head three days ago.
"Smile," Dante murmured as we approached the church. "You're supposed to be my grieving girlfriend, remember? Not my accomplice."
"I'm neither grieving nor good at pretending." But I plastered on a somber expression anyway, linking my arm through his.
The church was packed. Moretti family from across the country, business associates who didn't know what Sergio had really done, and a handful of actual mourners who'd genuinely cared about him. Maria, his girlfriend, was in the front row sobbing. She still thought it was an accident.
Poor girl. She had no idea she'd been sleeping with a traitor.
