The last of the mourners had filtered out out of the room, leaving behind a quiet that felt intrusive, like silence had taken on mass and weight. The chapel lights had dimmed to a muted glow, and only the soft clink of glass and the shuffle of shoes on marble echoed from the adjoining room where the wake had concluded.
Outside, under a narrow stone archway that jutted from the chapel wall like a lip over the night, Luca lit a cigarette with hands that trembled just slightly at the knuckles. The lighter's flame briefly caught in his eyes, casting a fleeting gold over the green flecks in his irises before vanishing into the cold air.
Beside him stood Conrad Rhodes, one of the freelance photographers who had floated like a vulture in and out of the entertainment world, skimming stories from the edges of scandals and secrets. But Conrad had known Danny, really known him. At least as well as anyone could.
