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I accepted each one.

Samantha stood beside me through every condolence. She introduced herself when necessary, kept her hand on my arm, and made herself useful without overstepping. She looked concerned without looking dramatic. She made me appear loved without competing for sympathy.

Near the far side of the room, John Hartwell watched me over the rim of his glass.

John was one of the most calculating men I knew, second only to me. My father had sponsored his ascent into circles where men discussed leverage, removal, debt, and loyalty without hesitation because every man present had already compromised himself beyond saving.

John was younger than most of Leonard’s associates but only a few years older than me. He had advanced quickly. He had charm when he needed it and patience when charm stopped being useful. Leonard respected that, although he would have called it something less generous.

A woman stood beside John. She was beautiful and composed with dark hair pulled back and an engagement ring on her left hand. She spoke to another couple with ease, though her attention kept returning to John.

John walked over after the older guests began thinning.

“Richard,” John said, shaking my hand with calculated firmness. “Hell of a send-off. Your old man would’ve been proud. How are you really holding up, or is that question as useless as it sounds?”

“Managing,” I said, matching his grip. “The eulogies were… polished. Mother would’ve approved of the optics, at least.”

John chuckled dryly. “Optics were always her specialty. Samantha, you’re a vision.”

“She’s been indispensable,” I replied, covering her hand with mine. Samantha smiled, oblivious.

He turned to the woman beside him. “This is my fiancée, Mary.”

Mary offered her hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I appreciate you coming.”

John glanced toward the bar, then back to me. “Leonard would have respected the way you conducted yourself today.”

“My father respected appearances.”

“He respected discipline.”

“He demanded it more than he practiced it.”

John gave a quiet laugh. “That’s fair.”

Mary’s expression softened. “It’s hard losing parents, no matter the relationship.”

“It is,” I said.

John studied me for another second. He knew me well enough to understand that grief was not the subject worth discussing.

“Some of us are meeting tomorrow evening at the club,” he said. “Nothing formal. Drinks. Dinner. A few men who knew your father.”

“I’ll be there.”

John nodded. “Nine o’clock. The private room downstairs.”

I looked past John toward the terrace doors. A younger man stood there with a woman. He was tall and powerfully built through the shoulders. He scanned the crowd like someone who knew how to watch for threats. Short dark hair. Hazel eyes. Sharp features. A neatly trimmed goatee framed a serious mouth.

The woman beside him kept close. Her hand rested on his arm. She shared some of Mary’s striking features. High cheekbones and full lips. Rich warm brown skin that caught the low light. Dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

“You met Greg Sinclair yet?” John asked. “Handled the Bayshore cleanup for one of your father’s subsidiaries. Quiet fixes. No headlines. He’s becoming a very useful man.”

I studied him. Greg had gained the Collective’s attention. Whispers had reached me weeks ago. Men like him did not climb without leaving marks.

“Opportunity or loyalty?” I asked.