Page 6 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

“I’m having a banana bread latte,” I warned him.

Despite myself, my late husband’s words came back to me, teasing me about my ‘expensive girly drinks’ in such a way that it was more of a judgment than just a lighthearted jab.

Objectively, I knew he was probably just annoyed that he couldn’t pay for my coffee habit.

Though that didn’t explain why—when I’d really been trying to get pregnant—he continued to tease me about it even when I’d given up coffee for months.

“Whatever you’re having, sweetheart,” he said, shrugging.

“I can make a plain one,” I told him as I got my homemade banana bread syrup out of the fridge.

Unwanted, Ronny’s words came back to me.

“A glass-front fridge? What, does she want to show off how empty it is? What does she even feed you, baby?”

It had been useless to remind her that I liked aesthetics. My whole career revolved around them.

All she cared about was if I was cooking for Matthew or not.

And I was. I just liked to go daily to the market to pick out the ingredients to whatever spoke to me. To make a meal that Matthew would inevitably call “too fancy,” refuse to eat, and then go out to get greasy fast food.

“Is that homemade coffee syrup?” Nico asked, head tipping to the side. “Now I have to try it.” I offered him a little smile as I poured a generous amount into each cup before brewing the espresso. “Damn, that smells good.”

Even if he just had good manners, I felt a little tingle at the praise.

When was the last time I heard a man say something nice to me? Months, at least.

“Hot or iced?” I asked, going into the freezer to grab my acrylic container full of round ice cubes.

“Iced sounds good.” There was another crash coming from my bedroom, making him wince.

“They were going to pick my lock.” I don’t know why I said that. He clearly knew the Ferraro family. He didn’t want to hear anyone talking shit about them.

“What?” he asked, tone going sharp.

“I was debating not answering the door,” I admitted. “But then I heard Ronny ask if Danny could pick the lock.”

“Christ,” Nico said, sighing.

“I figured it might be best to get this part over with.” I was pretty sure he heard what I wasn’t saying: that I wanted to be done with them.

“Don’t be so sure this will be the end of it,” Nico said, pitching his voice for just the two of us.

“But they hate me,” I said, stomach sinking.

“Hey, I don’t think they hate you,” Nico, clearly a good guy, insisted.

“Oh, they hate me. I came to terms with that a long time ago.”

Nico glanced down the hall, then back at me. He was clearly fighting with his loyalties. In the end, he chose diplomacy, not picking sides. “If they can think of a reason to, they will contact you.”

A reason.

It wasn’t a stretch to assume he meant money.

That was the only time Ronny would speak to me directly. And she’d lean heavily on the guilt. “You need to pitch in for Danny’s bail. He’s family .” Or “Carol needs money to pay down her medical bills. It’s what family does.”

It was like she dangled the carrot she knew I was starving for. Family. Belonging. Just to get something out of me. Then snatching it right away again.

Of course, I would still be beholden to the Ferraro family. So long as I had what they wanted, they would come knocking.

“Maybe I should move,” I said, glancing around the apartment.

I no longer felt all the hope and joy that I once did when I looked around.

Back when I saw kids running down the long hallway, laughter wafting out toward me as I cooked dinner.

Or all of us gathered in the living room in matching Christmas PJs.

Or gathered around the too-large dining room table with all our loved ones on holidays.

Now, it just felt like a graveyard of lost or abandoned dreams. Who wanted to live amongst the ruins?

“That might help,” Nico agreed. “If you want to move, that is.”

I handed him his coffee and we both took a sip.

I swear I could feel the caffeine surging through my bloodstream, chasing away the exhaustion that had been clinging to me for a week.

When my eyes opened, I caught Nico’s gaze down on my breasts again. When my own followed, I could see my nipples pressing out of the silk material.

For reasons I was choosing not to analyze, though, I didn’t try to cover myself up.

“This is amazing,” Nico said, his voice sounding a little thicker than a moment before.

“It’s my fav—”

“I’m just going to grab some box—Nico!” Ronny said, appearing out of nowhere, making me whip around.

“Ronny,” Nico said, nodding his chin at her.

“When did you… for God’s sake,” Ronny said, wrinkling her nose up at me, “cover up, would you? Have a little class, this is—”

“Ronny,” Nico interrupted. There was a quiet command in his voice. A whole speech in two syllables.

“You are her dead husband’s best friend,” Ronny said, chin lifting, not accustomed to being scolded. “She shouldn’t be walking around with her business all on—”

“Ronny,” Nico said, a little more bite in his words. “That’s enough,” he added, voice softer but still brooking no argument.

Ronny said nothing to that, just continued on to the door, mumbling under her breath about how she was just trying to teach a woman some manners.

I blinked the sting out of my eyes as I turned back to Nico. “I don’t usually greet company in my pajamas,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. Which only managed to make my breasts heave.

“This is your home,” Nico said. “You can wear whatever you want.”

“Thanks for… that,” I said, waving toward the door. “No one ever contradicts the Ferraro matriarch.”

“I’ll always call someone out when they’re in the wrong.”

“Even your mom?” I asked. There was a lot of hope in that question. Because I really wanted to believe there were men in the world who stood up to their own families if they were being rude—or outright cruel—to their wife.

“Well, my mom is dead. But, yeah. If someone was speaking out of turn, I would say something. No one is above reproach.”

“I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks. It was when I was a kid.”

“I never knew my mom.”

What? Why did I tell him that? It took me weeks to admit that to Matthew. We’d been married by then.

“Did she pass?”

“No. She popped me out, dropped me on my grandmother’s doorstep, then took off. We never heard from her again.” Or learned who my father was, for that matter.

“Is that your grandmother’s locket?” he asked, making me realize I was rubbing my finger across it again.

“Yeah.”

“When did you lose her?”

“My first year of college.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been devastating.”

It made me never want to get out of bed again. It made me fall into a hole of depression it took me years to claw my way back out of.

“It was. But she lives on. In my love of art. She was an amazing artist. She used to do watercolor floral cards for everyone for their birthdays or weddings. I, unfortunately, can’t draw a stick figure. But I love art because of her.”

“She’d be really proud of what you’ve accomplished with that love.”

Tears flooded my eyes before I could fight them off.

Nico placed his cup down with one hand and was reaching for me with the other.

Just as Danny came clomping down the hallway.

“Where’s the key to the spare room?”

A little whimper of helplessness escaped me at that as Nico’s hand dropped down.

“There’s nothing of Matthew’s in the spare room. It’s my office.”

“Still want to check and make sure.”

“Danny, you have no right to demand to do anything in this apartment,” Nico said, tone firm but getting strained. Like he, too, was losing patience.

“We have a right to collect Matt’s things.”

“You actually don’t. You know that, right? From a legal standpoint, everything that was Matt’s is now Blair’s. Not yours.”

“Don’t give a fuck what the law says. She has no right to his shit.”

“Oh, my God. Fine. You can look in the spare room. But don’t touch anything.”

Danny straightened, triumphant.

“It’s not worth the fight,” I added to Nico in a lower voice. “They’ll just come back when you’re not here.”

He followed me to the office and stood between me and Danny as I unlocked the door.

I hated having anyone inside.

I wanted to slap Danny when he snorted at the wall of framed floral watercolors I had painstakingly displayed.

The artwork itself declined as my grandmother’s hands shook in her old age.

Still, I cherished every single one of those cards.

I could practically hear her humming as she painted at the kitchen table while I did my schoolwork in the next room.

“Are any of these his?” Danny asked, flipping through the canvases leaning against the wall.

“In what world would Danny have an art collection?” Nico asked.

“Yeah, he was never into that highbrow shit.” This was said with a glance toward me.

“Come on. Go help your mom with the boxes,” Nico said, clamping a hand on Danny’s shoulder and forcibly leading him out of my office. When Danny walked off, he turned back to me. “Why don’t you hang here? I will try to rush them on and get them out of here.”

I knew I shouldn’t accept his help. Or trust a man I didn’t even know.

But I did both.