Page 2 of Marcus

She refused to put her daughter in black. Little Tiffany. Named for her father’s sister who had passed as a young girl from childhood cancer. With her head of golden curls that she took from her father, and big blue eyes she took from her mother—compliments of Cella’s own mother, Jordyn—Tiffany wore the brightest yellow dress Cella could find in her closet that would make anyone smile who looked at her. She even added a headband with a big yellow flower to the girl’s head.

Because God …

At least, she thought, if today couldn’t be a day that she smiled … then she wanted others to find a reason to do it. Her husband would have appreciated that. Respected it. Loved it, honestly. William, with his heart of gold and his easy disposition, always tried to make someone laugh first and foremost. He made friends easier than most, and it was hard not to want to be in his presence.

Everybody thinks lawyers are boring, he told her once, so I like to surprise people.

It was exactly why she fell in love with him.

Why she started this life with him.

And then someone took it away.

A handful of dirt was tossed into the hole in the ground, dragging Cella from her thoughts with a vicious intent. She was just close enough to the edge to be able to see her husband’s casket resting down below, yet another item that gleamed black that day.

Still so fucking black.

Like her heart, now.

She found it easier to stare at anything else except things with that color. It was why she missed the priest’s final words as her husband was laid to rest in his grave, and the reason for her distraction as people started flooding out of the graveyard. She heard their condolences, sure, saw their familiar faces as they stopped to give their sympathies before leaving, but it was all just background noise to her grief.

The pain lingered.

Even when she was alone.

More so when she wasn’t.

Still, she tried to thank people. She attempted to put on her brave face with each of their I’m so sorrys or the please call me if you need anything. The platitudes didn’t mean anything to her, but they made them feel better, she supposed.

And besides, this was their way.

The Marcello way.

Even when her soul felt like it was being ripped out of her chest, even if her husband’s young life had ended far too soon all because of the lifestyle all these people here today chose to live when William hadn’t even been a made man, she was a Marcello daughter at the end of the day.

A mafioso principessa. And so, she would smile like one. Say thank you like one. Die quietly inside like one.

Because there wasn’t a soul in this graveyard who cared to hear how Cella blamed them for this—for her heartache, and her daughter’s loss.

She never wanted to marry a made man. So, she didn’t. Her husband died anyway.

It taught her a lesson she wouldn’t forget: one couldn’t be not in with this life. There was no from a safe distance when it came to her family. She was who she was. And she sacrificed for it, too.

“Mrs. Gagnon? It’s Cella, right?”

Cella turned her attention away from the spot she’d been focusing on over the top of her daughter’s head to find yet another person had come to say goodbye and give his condolences. His face seemed familiar with all it’s strong, classically handsome lines, and his dark brown eyes only reflected empathy when he stared at her.

Another day, and she might have recognized him.

Today, she only said, “And who are you?”

“Marcus Guzzi—I came in place of my father to pay respects.”

Ah.

Another crime family. A Canadian one, this time. Funny how they all gathered at times like this.

“Well, thank you,” she whispered. “And it’s Marcello. Cella Marcello.”