David nods. “Then we’ll proceed once she’s been located.”
St. Michael’s Cathedral is a monument to old money and older sins. Gothic spires spring toward heaven while the congregation below deals in decidedly earthier matters. I sit in the front pew, watching Father Romano speak about redemption and forgiveness as if any of us believe in such things.
He’s been the Moretti family’s priest for decades—on the payroll as much as the men who carry my guns. He baptizes our children, hears our confessions, prays for our dead, and turns a blind eye to the bodies we bury.
The closed coffin sits before the altar. Empty, of course. There wasn’t enough left of Dante to scoop, let alone a casket.
“We gather today to mourn the loss of a young man taken before his time,” Father Romano intones, his voice echoing off stone walls.
Behind me, two hundred people maintain the fiction of grief. Rival families, soldiers, wives gossiping behind black veils about succession and power plays. The Torrinos sit like vultures threerows back, the Benedettis whisper among themselves, and even the Russians—predictable as always—occupy their corner, their eyes already sizing up which of my holdings they might chip away at.
The eulogies speak of Dante’s brilliance, his promise, his bright future. All lies. Most of them feared him more than they respected him. And now that he’s dead, they’ll pretend sorrow while their attorneys sharpen contracts and their underbosses calculate advantage.
I can almost hear them thinking:Who controls the ports now? What about the Vegas contracts? Who steps into Dante’s chair?
The incense hangs thick in the air, mixing with the faint metallic scent of rain-soaked concrete drifting in through the cathedral doors. The stained glass windows cast fractured pools of crimson and gold across the polished marble, like pools of blood frozen in sunlight.
And through it all, that damn will gnaws at the edge of my mind. Whatever Dante signed six months ago—whatever trap he’s left me to untangle—it waits for me after this farce is done.
The service drags on—readings, hymns, empty platitudes. I let my mind wander to business matters, to what the hell Dante has in his will, and to the woman we need to find.
Finally, Father Romano raises his hands for the final blessing.
The procession to Holy Cross Cemetery moves like a black river through the streets of Oakmont. I ride in the lead car with Benedetto, watching people stop and stare as we pass.
Oakmont isn’t on any official ledger. Not for the family, at least. It’s never been part of our public face. The old estate was acquired decades ago under shell companies—an hour north, tucked into the hills, far enough from the city to be forgotten by most. We don’t conduct business here. Oakmont exists for two purposes only: private family matters and burial.
The cemetery spans fifty acres of rolling hills, with the Moretti plot situated on the highest point, offering a commanding view. Everything has been prepared perfectly—the grave, the chairs, the artificial grass covering the mound of dirt.
I take my position beside the grave as mourners arrange themselves in a semicircle. The afternoon sun breaks through clouds as Father Romano begins the committal service.
“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…”
My hand closes around the handful of dirt beside the grave—a ritual gesture we perform whether we believe in it or not. The dry earth falls from my fingers onto the gleaming coffin, the sound of it soft but final.
A bitter irony, this moment.
His mother lies a few feet away, buried beneath the same soil. She abandoned Dante when he was just an infant—left him screaming in his crib and vanished into whatever empty life she chased. Five years later, she was found murdered in a motel, the result of debts she couldn’t pay.
I buried her here quietly, not out of obligation, but because part of me—some stupid, useless part—had once cared for her. I was so young, not even twenty when Dante was born, but I raised my son alone after that, made him into what he became.
Now, mother and son are reunited in death, even if they barely knew each other in life.
As Father Romano moves into the next prayer, I take the white linen cloth Benedetto offers and wipe the dust from my fingers.
It’s then that I let my gaze drift across the faces of those who’ve come to mourn—or to watch. Two hundred people gathered here. Power brokers. Rivals. Pretenders. Widows in black veils. Soldiers in tailored suits. Lawyers and politicians who owe me favors. The vultures have all come.
I scan them calmly from behind my dark glasses, my expression neutral as always. They don’t know I’m watching. They never do.
And then I see her.
Not in the crowd of mourners, but standing apart, beneath a large oak tree at the edge of the gathering.
She’s wearing a fitted black coat that flares slightly at the waist, heels that sink lightly into the grass, and dark sunglasses that nearly swallow her face. But I recognize her instantly.
The curve of her jaw. The slope of her neck. The smooth, pale skin exposed by the open neckline of her coat. And there, above her collarbone, the small, delicate snake tattoo.
Her.
