Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Yes, apparently he owes the wrong people a lot of money. No judgment, of course. Addiction is a disease. But you know how dangerous it is to owe the wrong people money.” I clicked my tongue like it was just such a shame. “Thankfully, Declan, ever the charitable Catholic that he is, has agreed to wipe away all of his debts. All the good doctor has to do is to give you a paralytic and leave the room. Isn’t that just so magnanimous of Declan? I mean, I’m just blooming with pride, to see such a stand-up member of our community help someone in need.”
“No, you can’t. You need to save me. You’re a priest—you can’t—you have to stop them.”
My brow furrowed as I straightened to my full height, towering over her in judgment. “Why would I do that? It would be rather silly since I worked so tirelessly to put you here.”
“No. You can’t! I will destroy your family. If anything happens to me, your father will rue the day. The information I have on your father and your brother will destroy everything. Everyone will—”
“We will all have reasons to celebrate and lift a glass as we dance upon your grave,” I finished for her.
“I still have allies I can—”
“You have never had allies, Mary Quinn Astrid. You’ve had people you manipulated, that you have used, abused, and blackmailed through the grace of money, your reputation, and blackmail. All of which you no longer have, as we all know.”
“You?”
“Of course it was me, you dumb bitch,” I sneered, tired of the priest act.
“If you save me, I’ll—”
I looked down her body and saw her chipped nails and the tint of reddish brown under her French tips. I picked up her hand and brought it to her face. “What’s this?”
She paled again.
“I think it’s blood,” Declan said.
“I think so too, but whose?”
“It’s none of your concern. No one that matters.”
I leaned in closer again.
“I was never going to take it this far. Don’t get me wrong, I was going to destroy you. I was going to ruin your reputation, but then I met Rose. That beautifully sweet, innocent woman who you abused constantly. Stealing from you, destroying your reputation, having you kicked off of every charitable board in the entire city. That was for me. This…this is for Rose.”
I stood and watched as she opened and closed her mouth, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side as she tried to figure out the best play. There were no more plays.
“Enjoy your fate, Mary Quinn. I would offer you a prayer before you meet your maker, but we both know Satan doesn’t give a fuck.”
I turned and walked away from the table. The two thugs Declan had with him each carried a scalpel in their hands.
“Sticking with the theme?” I asked Declan.
“It seemed appropriate,” he said, and I returned his shrug as I left the surgical suite, Mary Quinn’s screams echoing down the hall.
I stopped at the end of the hallway where the small group of nurses were staring up at me, their eyes wide. I made the sign of the cross and left.
My vengeance was complete, and Rose was free.
CHAPTER 33
THOMAS
Istood at the podium, watching Mary Quinn’s closed casket be brought down the aisle for her funeral. Her son, of course, did his duty leading the procession, my brother, acting as the dutiful son-in-law that he was, on the other side with her coffin on his shoulder. The others behind them I didn’t recognize.
They probably just hired random people off Facebook Marketplace or something ridiculous like that. Who else would they ask? The other families were, of course, in attendance, not wanting to be seen as uncaring, but also distancing themselves so as not to be brought into Mary Quinn’s ongoing scandal.
Not even death would stop the chin wagging and gossip with this crowd. If anything, it made it worse.
Her own husband didn’t even escort her down the aisle.
Not that anyone blamed him. Still, the chickens would cluck about that too.
In all the years that I had fantasized about Mary Quinn’s death, somehow it had never even occurred to me to believe that I would have the honor of standing at the pulpit, presiding over her funeral, being the one to say the last words before she was to be carried to the Astrid mausoleum and entombed.
I didn’t know why it never even occurred to me they would ask me to do this.
Her casket was set on the table surrounded with white lilies and carnations, a flower she notoriously detested, calling it a weed with no class. I didn’t know who chose it, but I admired their style.
I looked out over the congregation all in black, several of the women wearing fashionable hats with black veils covering a portion of their faces. Many of them had their faces tipped down, tissues pressed to their eyes as I spoke, to help sell the idea of mourning a loss. But no one looked overly upset.