Page 111 of King of Ashes
We don’t need words to communicate. I need her. I need her by my side. I need to know we’re good so I can function.
“He’s gone,” I whisper, as if afraid of saying it out loud. As if that could change the outcome.
I just saw him a few hours ago. Denial consumes me. I believed I had more time with him.
“I am here, I’m here, baby.” She rushes to my side, and I fall into her arms, drawing strength from her.
In the garage, I pat my pockets, not finding my keys, but I hear them jingling from her hand.
“You’re in no shape to drive. Scoot over to the passenger side,” she says, brooking no argument.
Then she turns to my men. “No one comes or goes. We’re in lockdown.”
I’ve never appreciated her more than I do right now, when she does what I should be doing—leading.
An influential member of the Mafia dying is the best time for an enemy to enact an ambush.
She slips behind the wheel, finds my hand and interlaces our fingers. “You can break and cry and curse on the inside. I know what he meant to you, who he was to you, but you’re not just a grieving nephew. You’re the Boss.”
She’ll be a fantastic Underboss. Fuck, who am I kidding? She would make a spectacular Boss.
The house is eerily quiet as we walk inside, my uncle’s men scattered around the perimeter with downcast eyes, some smoking, some even drinking straight from flasks. He was deeply loved. One of us had to be, since I preferred a moreruthless approach instead of a diplomatic one. Now that he is gone, counterbalancing that will be hard.
I take the stairs to the first floor, following the quiet sobs of my aunt and cousin.
He lies in his bed, eyes open. A fist lodges in my throat as I approach him, looking one more time into his eyes that have lost any flicker of light, the life gone forever.
I lean down and kiss his forehead. “I’ll see you again, old man. Until then, I hope you and Pa have the best of times,” I whisper, choking up, my eyes welling as I close his for good.
Straightening, I slide an impenetrable mask into place.
Time slips away,the days blending together. Life goes on, and over the last few days, I’ve been busy dealing with the aftermath of my uncle’s death, ensuring the latest acquisition goes through, and moving from one meeting to another. I have barely slept, functioning on sheer will.
Zara took over the funeral preparations, being there for my cousin and aunt while silently supporting me through the grieving process. If it weren’t for her, I would have embraced darkness, going on a killing spree to ease the shackles of grief.
We’re at my uncle and aunt’s house as today is his funeral.
Hands in my pockets, I stare out the living room window. Outside, everything blooms under summer’s reign, inconsiderate of the grief coating these walls. Around me, the high-ranking men of the organization have gathered. These assholes only think about getting something out of my loss. Not shooting someone for pressuring me to name my Underboss becomes increasingly difficult with every second.
It will be an immense pleasure to inform them who will be my right hand when the time comes.
“None of you will become my Underboss,” I say, their fish-out-of-water expressions eliciting the only smile I’ve had in days as I search for my wife like she’s my source of light, needing a dose of her to sustain me through the day.
Zara has been the only one to see the cracks, the deep-rooted pain. She’s the only one capable of comforting me.
I find her in the garden, dressed in black, a pillbox hat on her head with a veil falling over her eyes.
She looks ahead, lost in thought. “I didn’t have this. It’s an important ritual for people, saying goodbye. So be grateful you can bury your loved one and grieve him. It’s a gift, not a curse,” she sighs, turning to me.
She fixes my tie before we drive to the cemetery in stilted silence.
At the family mausoleum, I palm the cold, smooth surface, being the last one to leave. The dead will sleep forever. The living will carry a hole inside their chests for the rest of their lives. It’s the price of living. Of loving. Everything ends, as nothing lasts forever.
My wife palms my arm, squeezing lightly, informing me it’s time to go.
Back at the house, people eat and chatter around the wake. While some prefer to numb themselves with alcohol, I’ve always wanted to be present. Pain means you’re still alive. Suffering means you survived another challenge.
Today is about mourning. Tomorrow is about living.
