That’s why I let him lead me to his SUV and climb in after him. The drive to the cemetery is slow, the kind of procession that makes the whole city pause. Streets are blocked off, traffic stopped. People stand on sidewalks, hats in hand, some crossing themselves as the line of black cars winds past. It feels less like a funeral and more like the closing of an empire.
When we arrive, the air is brittle and cold. Snow falls in thin, steady flakes that melt as soon as they touch the dark fabric of our coats.
The crowd from the church gathers around the grave, a sea of black wool and lowered heads. Men from Lorenzo’s world stand at the perimeter, a silent wall of protection and power. The priest murmurs his final words, his breath fogging in the cold.
I stay close to Lorenzo. He hasn’t spoken since we left the church. His face is carved from stone, but the tremor in his hand as he grips his daughter’s rosary tells another story.
When the priest finishes, two men lower the casket slowly, the chains creaking under the weight. White roses fall after it, each one hitting the polished surface with a dull, soft sound that feels like a heartbeat fading away.
That’s when I see the moment the walls finally crack.
Lorenzo steps forward, one hand fisting in his coat, the other reaching out like he can still pull her back. His breath comes rough and uneven, and when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper.
“Addio, tesoro mio.”
Goodbye, my treasure.
The words break me.
He stays like that for a long moment, shoulders shaking once before he manages to steady them. People glance his way, unsure if they should look or turn away. Francesca dabs delicately at her eyes but doesn’t move to him. No one does.
So I do.
I take a step forward, my boots crunching softly in the snow, and rest a hand on his arm. For a second, I think he’ll pull away. But then he exhales—a ragged, shuddering sound—and turns toward me.
His eyes are raw, the mask gone. “She was all I had left,” he says, voice rough.
The truth in it steals my breath.
Without thinking, I slide my arms around him. He’s tense at first but then he folds, just slightly, like gravity finally caught up with him. His hand finds my back, gripping the fabric of my coat as though it’s the only thing keeping him standing.
We stay like that, in the snow and silence, while the last of the mourners drift away.
When he finally pulls back, his expression is stripped bare. “You shouldn’t see me like this,” he mutters.
“I already have,” I whisper. “And it’s okay.”
He looks at me for a long time and something passes between us that neither of us can name. Not yet.
Then Cesaro steps forward, murmuring that it’s time to go.
Lorenzo nods, straightens his coat, and presses his palm briefly to the top of the casket before turning away. I do the same, sending up a prayer for my best friend.
As we walk back toward the waiting cars, his hand finds mine for just a moment. No one else sees it. But I feel it. The weight. The warmth. The silent plea tucked inside it. It’s a thread between two people who have lost the same person in different ways.
Then it’s gone.
Francesca appears out of nowhere, a flash of perfume and fur and possessive fury wrapped in grief’s disguise. She pushes her way neatly between us, looping her manicured hand through Lorenzo’s like she’s staking a claim.
“Come, darling,” she says smoothly. “Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”
He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t even look back. Just lets her guide him toward the waiting SUV like a man too tired to fight one more thing.
The door shuts with a quiet, expensive thud, and suddenly I’m staring at my own reflection in the tinted glass—hollow-eyed, wind-tangled hair, a black silhouette that doesn’t belong in this world of suits and secrets.
Cesaro’s hand brushes lightly against my back, his voice low and even. “This way, Ms. Miller.”
“Birdie,” I correct automatically, my voice thin in the cold air.
