I flinch at his choice of words. "This is a funeral, not a war council."
"Same thing in our world, Sister." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "One man's grave is another man's opportunity."
I pull away slightly, disturbed by his callousness. Sometimes, I don’t recognize him anymore.
Inside, the church fills with black suits and veiled faces.
The Dante family occupies the front pews.
Alessandro stern and imperious in his new role as Don, Adriano brooding beside him, Valentina straight-backed and dry-eyed.
I search for a face I both dread and long to see, but Luca isn't among them.
Relief and disappointment wage war in my chest.
We take our seats several rows back, the invisible line between family and associates clearly drawn.
Despite seven years under the Dante roof, I remain what I've always been, a bridge between factions, necessary but not quite belonging.
The organ begins its mournful dirge. I close my eyes briefly, steadying myself.
When I open them, I catch Alessandro watching me, his gray eyes assessing.
I meet his gaze without flinching.
Whatever suspicions swirl about Bratva involvement, I had no part in them.
He inclines his head slightly before turning away. A tiny acknowledgment, but I'll take it.
"Half the Russians in New York showed up," Pyotr whispers, leaning close. "Smart move, paying respects while sizing up the new leadership."
I scan the crowd, recognizing several Bratva captains. "Or perhaps they genuinely respected Don Lorenzo."
Pyotr's laugh is soft and bitter. "No one respected Lorenzo. They feared him."
The casket appears at the entrance, carried by six pallbearers.
As it passes our row, I bow my head, a lump forming in my throat.
Will Luca return now that his father is gone?
The thought sends the usual twisted emotions through me, anger and longing tangled together in a knot I've never managed to untie.
Seven years without a word.
Six years raising his son alone, fabricating stories about a father. Seven years of telling myself I'm over him.
One look would unravel it all, I fear.
One look at those storm-gray eyes, and I'd be twenty again, foolish and in love with a man who could walk away without looking back.
An unexpected laugh bubbles up, silent but sharp, and I press my fingertips to my lips to catch it.
The absurdity strikes me.
Worrying about Luca daring to return to a family he so easily discarded.
As if I should spare a single thought for the man who walked away without a backward glance.
