Given my mother and father had been staunch Catholics, as soon as everyone partaking in the funeral found a place surrounding the vault, the priest began to speak.
As required, I remained unmoving, yet the light breeze tickling the skin on my face was nothing more than pinpricks of anxiety. The event was newsworthy, another annoyance that fueled my anger.
We were surrounded by men in dark suits, Capos and madmen, all carrying concealed weapons, keeping the perimeter protected. A necessary evil. On this gloomy day, their presence reminded me that this life was similar to a prison. While we’d established the rules, that didn’t change the danger or the number of deaths in any given year.
Sinclair placed his hand on my shoulder. He knew me far too well in that I was at the point of losing patience, eager toconfront Russo. His sympathetic look mirrored everyone else. Maybe the reactions should be comforting.
They weren’t.
When the priest finally finished, there was moment of silence, a prayer, and the sign of the cross made. Soon, my father’s body would be loaded into the tomb, shut off from his family. At least that’s the way I continued to think about it. Both my other brothers were looking to me for guidance, a way of moving forward. I was now the head of the family, a position not to be taken lightly.
Yet accepting and embracing how many lives depended on my actions and decisions still seemed impossible.
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, only a few of my mother and father’s closest friends remaining alongside the family.
As tears slowly rolled down my mother’s face, I shoved the anger aside and gathered her into my arms. The last thing she needed was to be forced to deal with my incessant desire for revenge.
My mother was the strongest woman I knew, the love of her family the backbone that had allowed every sibling to thrive. I used to think she was invincible. Today, she seemed frail, as if she’d aged ten years in the last few days. I held her close while my uncles moved further away, both eyeing me cautiously.
While it had always been known I was the heir apparent to the powerful empire, they also were well aware my reputation as a ruthless monster could prove damaging. I could only imagine the pep talk I was about to receive.
“Are you okay, Mama?” I asked. “Do you want Emmeline to take you home?”
My mother pulled away, cupping both sides of my face with her hands, her eyes searching mine. “You are such a good boy.”
A good boy. I was thirty-six years old, but in her eyes, I’d still always be her baby. “Not always.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to make a great leader, my son. Your father would be so proud.” She eyed me carefully, studying the bruises on my face. I certainly didn’t have the mark of a leader given my split lip and the cut above my forehead.
She reached out, the concern in her eyes followed by an attempt to caress the bruises. I refused to allow her, taking her hand instead and kissing her knuckles.
In the aftermath of my father’s death, not only had I nearly torn the city apart seeking confirmation Russo was responsible, but I’d also spent hours in the boxing ring in hopes of ridding the excess rage.
Nothing had worked.
While my father and I hadn’t always gotten along, he was a man I held the highest respect for. Kissing her knuckles was something I used to do as a little boy. It had been something I’d seen my father do and had wanted to mimic him. At least in doing so, I was rewarded with a slight smile and some light flashing in her saddened eyes.
“Come on, Mama. Let me take you home. We have guests arriving soon and you need some rest.” My sister lifted her gaze toward me, her expression holding the same questions we all had.
Why?
To take out the leader of any syndicate was bold and almost unheard of.
“Thanks, Em,” I told her and unbuttoned my jacket as I scanned the perimeter of the cemetery. I wouldn’t put it past our enemies to try to use this moment to finish what they’d started outside a popular restaurant in the middle of broad daylight.
My grandmother approached, something curled in her hand. She was very much the matriarch of our family, harboring ancient customs held within our French Creole ancestry. She’d yet to realize the old ways had all but been forgotten.
“Que l’obscurité soit ta lumière.”
While my French was somewhat rusty, I knew the expression well.
Let the darkness be your light.
The saying was more about her belief in dark spirits and their ability to guide true believers from falling prey to the tricks played by demons. She’d yet to accept at least the male members of the Prince family were often called the Princes of Darkness for a reason.
We were merciless, powerful, and the kind of men who most feared.
Grandma opened my hand, placing something in my palm then curling her fingers around mine. A wise woman, she often didn’t need to say anything to get her point across. When she walked away, I was stuck by how resilient she was at her advanced age. She’d lived a long and vibrant life, unlike most men in our family.
