He was the strongest man I knew. The one who built everything from nothing. The one who protected everyone, who carried the weight of our entire organization on his shoulders for decades. He survived his heart attack a few months ago, didn’t he? Fought through it with that stubborn determination of his.
And now he’s just…gone. Lifeless.
I put my hand on his chest where his heart should be beating and bow my head, my jaw clenched so tight that pain shoots through my temples. Because if I open my mouth right now, I don’t know if I’ll scream or cry or both, and I can’t afford to do either. So I just remain on my knees beside him, breathing through the crushing pain like it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart. It probably is.
Fuck.Elira.
She just gave birth to little Luca a few months ago and is supposed to be taking it easy. How am I going to tell her he’s gone? She’s not going to take it well.
Then again, who would? Who’s ever prepared for thatmoment when someone who shaped your entire existence just… stops existing?
What am I going to do? How am I supposed to find the words for something like this—especially for someone who just brought new life into the world, only to be hit with death so soon after? How do I comfort her when I can’t even hold myself together?
My mind is spinning out of control, racing frantically through every possible reaction she could have, everything I’m going to have to say and do and?—
A hand touches my arm and my spiraling thoughts taper off.
I glance down at the feminine hand, then follow it up to the person touching me. Katie’s kneeling right next to me now, her face soaked in tears, her mouth twisted in pain, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. Her cheeks are flushed red, and there are small veins showing at her temples from how hard and long she must have been crying.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
I just stare at her, feeling numb all over, my brain barely registering that she’s not crying for show. She’s not pretending or manipulating the situation. She’s fucking destroyed by this. Nobody can fake that level of raw emotion, that depth of grief. She really cared about him. Despite everything—despite being sent here to spy on us, despite whatever her mission is—she came to love him. Or something close enough to it.
And maybe that shouldn’t surprise me.
Because everyone who spends any real time with my father ends up liking him, even if they don’t mean to. The charming old bastard always finds a way in somehow. Always manages to make people laugh or listen or feel seen and valued. He wasn’t always like that, though—there was a time when he was harder, more ruthless, more willing to do whatever it took to survive in this world. But the death of his beloved wifechanged him. Softened him, made him gentler. Maybe a little too much.
God. Is he really gone?
I feel like I’m floating outside of myself, watching this scene from a distance. My skin’s cold and clammy. My chest so tight that breathing takes conscious effort. My arms are heavy like they don’t belong to me.
I want to throw something. Break something. Scream until my throat is raw and bleeding. Anything to release this pressure building inside me.
But I don’t. I can’t. I have to keep my emotions locked down tight. I’m in charge of this entire operation now, and if I fall apart, so will my father’s legacy—he wouldn’t want that. He’d want me strong.
I force myself to stand when I hear footsteps in the hallway. Jonas walks in, the doctor’s face already grave before he even touches my father’s body. He doesn’t need to examine anything—he can see what I see.
I don’t wait for his professional confirmation of what I already know.
Instead, I bend down and slide my arms underneath my father’s still form, then lift him as gently as I can. He’s lighter than I thought he’d be—too light, like something essential has already left him—and his head rests against my shoulder the way it used to when he’d fall asleep on the couch after a long day, before I finally convinced him to step back and let me take over more of the day-to-day operations.
It almost feels like he’s just sleeping now. If not for the coldness of his skin and the terrible stillness of his chest, I could almost believe he’ll wake up any second and ask me what the hell I’m doing.
I carry him out of the office, ignoring the shocked looks from my men gathering in the hallway, ignoring the heavysilence as they step back to create a path for me, ignoring the way my throat feels slit open from the inside.
Atëdeserves privacy in this moment.
He deserves to be in his own room, in his bed, not left on the cold office floor like some forgotten old man who has no one to care for him. I hope with everything in me that he died peacefully in his sleep, that there was no pain, no fear, no awareness of what was happening. That he just slipped away between one breath and the next.
The hallway fills even more as I move forward, my men taking off their caps out of respect as I pass. I head towards the staircase, each step measured and careful because I’m carrying something precious.
And with every step upward, the weight in my arms feels even more impossible to bear. Not his physical weight—that’s nothing. It’s the weight of finality. Of never again.
He’s gone.
And I don’t know how I’m supposed to live in a world without him.
20
