I woke up on my couch still wearing my work clothes from yesterday.
The apartment was too quiet. Marcus used to fill every silence with music, singing, the TV running in the background because he said quiet made him nervous.
Now I understood why.
Quiet meant you could hear yourself think.
I stared at the ceiling and counted cracks in the plaster. Seventeen. I'd never noticed them before. Funny how you could live somewhere for two years and never see what was right above your head.
My phone sat on the coffee table. Fourteen missed calls. Twenty-three text messages. I didn't need to check to know who they were from. My mother. Sarah from work. Dr. Chen. The hospital HR department.
Everyone wanted to know if I was okay.
I wasn't okay. But saying that out loud wouldn't change anything.
The police had driven me home at three in the morning. I'd walked into the apartment and stood in the entryway for an hour. Just stood there. Looking at Marcus's jacket on the chair. His keys in the bowl. His shoes by the door.
Everything was exactly where he left it.
Except he wasn't coming back to claim any of it.
I pushed off the couch. My body ached like I'd been in a fight. Maybe I had been. Fighting reality. Fighting the truth. Fighting the fact that the man I was supposed to marry had lied about everything.
The bathroom mirror showed a stranger. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. Hair tangled from not sleeping. I looked like a ghost.
I felt like one too.
The shower ran hot enough to burn. I stood under the spray until the water turned cold. Scrubbed Marcus's blood from under my fingernails. Watched it swirl down the drain pink and diluted.
Four days until the funeral, the detective had said. Standard procedure. Autopsy. Investigation. Then we could lay him to rest.
Rest. Like Marcus could rest. Like any of us could rest after this.
I got dressed in whatever I grabbed first. Jeans. T-shirt. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
My phone rang again. This time I answered.
"Bella." My mother's voice cracked with relief. "Thank God. I've been calling for hours."
"I know."
"Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?"
"No."
"Bella, please. Let me help you."
"There's nothing to help with, Mom. He's dead. That's it."
Silence stretched between us. Heavy and loaded with things we weren't saying.
"Your father—" she started.
"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't compare this to Dad. Don't make this about your warnings. I can't handle that right now."
More silence.
"The funeral is in four days," she said finally. "I'll pick you up."
I hung up before I could say something I'd regret.
My mother had loved my father until a gang dispute killed him when I was twelve. She'd spent the rest of her life warning me never to love a man in that world. Never to become a mob wife. Never to trade independence for protection that came with a price.
I'd promised her I wouldn't.
Then I fell in love with Marcus anyway.
Now he was dead and she'd been right all along. I couldn't face her knowing that.
The apartment felt smaller every hour. Walls pressed in. Air got thicker. I tried to sleep in our bed but Marcus's scent lingered on his pillow. Tried the couch but that's where we'd argued about the wedding playlist three days ago.
So I didn't sleep.
I sat in the dark and waited for time to pass.
Four days crawled by like years.
Work called. Dr. Chen's voice was kind but firm on the voicemail. Take bereavement leave. Come back when ready. They'd hold my position.
I called him back.
"I want to work."
"Isabella, you need time to grieve."
"Sitting at home is worse than being busy. Please. I need routine."
He hesitated, then agreed. But I heard the doubt. He thought I was in denial.
He wasn't wrong.
On the fourth day, Marcus's mother called. Her voice was shattered.
"The funeral is tomorrow, Isabella. Saint Michael's. Two o'clock. You'll be there?"
"Yes."
"Good." She sobbed quietly. "Marcus would want you there. He loved you so much."
I hung up before responding.
Because Marcus had loved me. But he'd also lied. And I didn't know which truth was bigger.
That night I stood in my closet staring at clothes. One black dress suitable for a funeral. I'd bought it for my grandmother's service three years ago. Simple. Modest. Completely wrong for saying goodbye to the man I was supposed to marry.
I put it on anyway.
It hung loose on my frame. I'd lost weight in four days. Food tasted like ash. Water felt like swallowing rocks.
The mirror showed a stranger. Pale and hollow and empty.
My phone rang. Sarah.
"Bella, please talk to me. I'm worried."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Let me come over."
"I need to be alone."
"That's grief talking. You shouldn't be alone."
"Sarah, the funeral is tomorrow. I have to go."
I hung up.
The next morning arrived too fast and too slow simultaneously. I took a shower that lasted an hour because I couldn't remember if I'd washed my hair. Put on the black dress. Stared at myself and felt nothing.
My mother arrived at noon with food I wouldn't eat.
"You need to eat something, Bella. You're wasting away."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." She touched my face gently. "But you're not."
"I don't remember the last time I slept."
Her eyes filled with understanding. "I'm so sorry, baby. I know you loved him."
"Did I?" The words escaped before I could stop them. "Because I think I loved a version of him that didn't exist. The real Marcus had debts and enemies and secrets. The real Marcus was never leaving the mafia. The real Marcus lied about everything."
My mother's expression shifted. "That doesn't mean your love wasn't real. It just means his promises weren't."
She was right.
It didn't make me feel better.
We drove to the funeral home in silence. The building was old and elegant. Rich people said goodbye to their dead here. Marcus's family had money from the business.
Blood money.
The parking lot overflowed. Black cars lined the street. Men in expensive suits stood outside smoking. Women in designer dresses clustered together whispering.
This wasn't a funeral.
This was a mafia gathering.
Inside, someone guided me to a private room. A chair. A mirror. Tissues I didn't use because I still couldn't cry.
A woman appeared with a makeup kit. She didn't ask permission. Just started fixing my face like I was a doll that needed painting.
Foundation to hide my pale skin. Blush to fake life in my cheeks. Lipstick to make me look alive.
When she finished, I looked like someone else. Beautiful and composed and completely empty.
"You look lovely." Her voice was soft. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
I nodded. Words felt impossible.
I sat alone for twenty minutes, staring at my reflection. Wondering if Marcus could see me from wherever he was. Wondering if he was disappointed I couldn't even cry at his funeral. Wondering if he knew I was angrier at him for dying than sad about losing him.
The door opened. The funeral director appeared. Old and professional with kind eyes that had seen too much grief.
"Miss Rossi, it's time. Are you ready?"
Ready to walk into a room full of strangers and criminals? Ready to sit in the front row and pretend I wasn't screaming inside? Ready to bury the man I loved and the future we'd planned and the lies he'd told?
"Yes."
"The family is seated. You'll walk down the center aisle to the front row. We've reserved a seat beside Marcus's mother."
Center aisle.
Front row.
Reserved seat.
The words hit like a fist to the stomach.
This was supposed to be my wedding aisle. In two weeks I was supposed to walk down an aisle in a white dress with flowers in my hands and joy in my heart. I was supposed to see Marcus waiting at the altar, smiling that crooked smile that made me fall in love with him.
Instead I was walking down a funeral aisle in a black dress with death in my heart and a casket at the end.
"Miss Rossi?" The funeral director offered his arm.
I took it because my legs felt unsteady.
He opened the door to the main chapel.
Three hundred people turned to look at me.
And that's when I saw him again.
The man from the street. The one who'd watched me from the shadows the night Marcus died.
He stood in the back row wearing a black suit that probably cost a fortune. His dark eyes locked onto mine with intensity that stole my breath.
Heat rushed through me despite everything. Despite the grief. Despite the funeral. Despite knowing I should feel nothing but numbness.
He didn't look away.
Neither did I.
Because somehow, in that moment, I knew.
This man was dangerous.
This man knew exactly who killed Marcus.
And he was here to claim me.