11
Ryker
I hadn’t expected one goddamn ounce of grief over Mom’s passing, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt at all. The fact I couldn’t even f*****g hug my sister—she wrapped her arms around herself while the coroner rolled Mom’s body out the condo’s door—pissed me the hell off.
The need to punch the s**t out of something, demolish a face, shed some blood, rode my shoulders tense to the point I caved and poured myself three shots of whiskey before focusing on the s**t I needed to take care of.
A call to my lawyer later that morning set paperwork in motion. A call to Vigil let him know I’d be staying in Southie for at least another two days.
We didn’t plan a wake or funeral, just a simple incineration of Mom’s body and a vat of ashes I had no wish to see or touch. Jenny would k
