Every family. Every captain. Every soldier who ever owed Antonio Marini loyalty. They're here to pay respects to a man who ruled part of this city for forty years.
And to see if his nephew can fill his shoes.
I stand at the front, Gemma beside me in black. She looks pale. Beautiful, but pale. Like she hasn't slept in days.
She hasn't.
Neither have I.
Four weeks since the alleyway. Four weeks since Antonio died. Four weeks of planning this funeral, managing the captains, fielding calls from every family in the city asking if the Marinis are stable. None of us expected to wait this long, and yet, Antonio had specific instructions, which pushed the timeline of his burial out an obscene amount.
Not that I was angry about it. The focus on Antonio meant I didn't have to think about my wife and her betrayal.
Whatever progress we made over the past few weeks has withered to nothing. We've barely talked during these last few weeks.
But today, we're united.
Today, we're the perfect Marini power couple. Everything Antonio and Bianca would have wanted to see. And it's a complete fucking farce.
The priest drones on about eternal rest and God's mercy. Antonio would have hated this sermon, even though he wrote the damn thing. He didn't believe in mercy. Didn't believe in rest.
He believed in family and duty, and doing whatever it takes.
"Promise me you'll do what's necessary. For the family. Always for the family."
I promised.
Now I have to deliver.
Too bad I don't know how the fuck to do that.
The service ends after what feels like hours, and we file out to the cemetery. The coffin is lowered. People offer condolences that mean nothing.
It's all a blur as I focus ahead on the next steps.
I'd grieved Antonio weeks ago, which is why I can scan the crowd instead of focusing on my uncle's lowering coffin.
That's when I see him.
Alexei Morozov. Standing at the back of the crowd. Smiling like a fucking lunatic.
He has the audacity to come to Antonio's funeral. To stand on Marini ground and smile like he hadn't been fucking around with my wife. Like he didn't want to use her, harm her the way he has every single woman in his life.
My vision goes red, and I'm moving before I can think too much about it.
"Saint—" Gemma's hand on my arm. Her fingers dig into my bicep in warning.
I shake her off, ignoring the desperation in her tone.
Marcello appears beside me. "Don't. Not here. Not now."
"Take Gemma to the car," I order.
I've been itching for violence these past weeks. Things have been too unsettled. I'd been unable to get out and exact the vengeance I crave. Thankfully, my enemy has come to me.
What luck.
"Saint, please—" Gemma's eyes are wide, and she looks between myself and Marcello, begging me to stop.
