the massive bills, starting with a trauma team callout, followed by three months on a spinal unit—where he had been billed right down to the last dressing—and then there had been the cost of a care flight home for her brother, who had been left paralysed from the waist down.
They had been in debt up to their eyeballs and of course Michael had become severely depressed. The job she had been due to start had been lost long ago, and so Mia had applied for and taken a job at Romano’s in London. Though it had paid well and had been a fast-paced, busy role. As well as that, she had been working on improving her Italian in the hope of a promotion, while visiting her brother and dealing with the issue of housing for him.
It had all got too much.
Mia had been grieving, scared and angry.
Angry at her father for not listening to her concerns about him driving on the other side of the road, and angry with her mother too for not supporting her when she had voiced them.
And then there was her brother, who had been foolish and selfish enough to travel without insurance—though, of course, he had paid a terrible price, and it would be futile and mean to get angry with him.
So Mia had held it in, and held it in, and on an exceptionally busy day at work—Rafael Romano had been visiting the London office—when another debtor had called, and she had come close to a panic attack. Rafael had seen her distress, stopped and asked, ‘My dear, whatever is wrong?’
It still touched her that during his own very difficult time—Rafael had himself just been asked for a divorce while, unbeknownst to his wife, undergoing a health scare—he still had taken the time to ask her what was wrong.
Of course Mia hadn’t voiced her anger, just admitted to the hopeless position she was in.
And, because of that conversation, more than two years later, here she was, preparing for dear Rafael’s funeral.
But this morning, when surely it should be Rafael and his kindness and the help he had given to her family that should be consuming her, it was memories of being trapped in that car that had Mia literally shaking.
She could still hear her mother’s voice from the passenger seat, calling out to her. Telling her to hold on. That help would be here soon and that she loved her.
Except the report clearly stated that her mother had been killed on impact.
Yes, Mia had gone over that report a lot.
It scared her.
More than that, it terrified her.
At the age of twenty-four she was more petrified of the dark than she had been as a little girl, for she didn’t just believe in ghosts, Mia knew that she had heard one speak.
‘Get a grip, Mia,’ she told herself, and with breakfast done she dressed for the funeral.
Her underwear was all black and new, and she had black tights that might be considered by some a little sheer for a widow, but she had bought them online. The soft wool dress she had bought in Florence, and from neck to hem it was adorned with little black pearl buttons. A stupid choice for a funeral, Mia decided, because her hands were so shaky, but finally every last button was done up.
She did not darken her fair lashes with mascara, for though she did not cry easily—in fact, she could not remember when she last had—Mia did not want to chance it. Her hair she wore up in a simple chignon and she wore no jewellery other than her wedding and engagement rings, both of which would be coming off tonight.
It was almost eleven and, though reluctant to leave the warmth of her suite, she picked up the orchid she had collected on her ride this morning and stepped out.
Mia looked down to the foyer below and the family gathered there, all dressed in black. She could hear the sound of low funereal voices.
Thankfully, there was no sign of Angela, who had vowed never to set foot in the house while ‘this tramp’ was here. Though Mia was rather certain that Angela would make an exception for the reading of the will!
Mia was less than impressed with Angela, though of course she had kept her opinions to herself. The fact was that it was Angela who had wanted all this, yet loved the role of victim and, to Mia’s mind, played it a little too well.
Dante turned