Page 6 of Vance

“He finally did it,” Baldwin says without looking up.

“Killed himself?” I ask.

Beckett lets out a humorless laugh. “No. Fucking died.”

A physician enters a moment later, his white coat crisp despite the late hour. “Mr. Ashford?” His eyes move between the five of us before settling on me. “I’m Dr. Reynolds. We did everything we could⁠—”

“I’m sure you did.”

He hesitates, clearly expecting more from me. “There wasn’t anything anyone could have done. The myocardial infarction was catastrophic. By the time EMS arrived⁠—”

I shake my head. “We don’t need a medical explanation.”

He nods once. “Would your family like a few moments with him?”

I glance toward my brothers, and none of them moves. “We’ll see him,” I answer for everyone.

The physician leads us through a maze of hallways until we stop outside a private room tucked away from the bustle of the emergency department. “He was cleaned up,” the doctor says quietly. “We thought… it would be better for the family.”

We step inside to find Roman Ashford lying beneath a white hospital sheet, a cheap low-thread-count industrial one he would despise.

“You think he’s yelling at Saint Peter already?” Beckett muses.

Baldwin shrugs. “Nah. He’s definitely in hell. Probably trying to barter a deal to own half of it.”

“Would you two assholes shut up?” Xander says quietly. They do, though they’re still smiling.

I pull the sheet back, and Roman stares up at me with milky eyes, his mouth slightly agape with pain or rage. Knowing him, he was cursing someone until his final breath. For a moment, I simply stare. It’s remarkable how small death makes a man. For nearly forty years he’s been a tyrant in our lives, and now he’s just… still.

His hands are folded neatly across his chest. The same hands that taught me how to throw a punch and occasionally landed one to drive home how little he appreciated being disrespected.

I search his face for something. Regret. Peace. Vindication. Anything. But there’s nothing. Death has stripped him of the larger-than-life personality that filled every room he entered. All that’s left is an old man who ran out of time.

Behind me, the doctor clears his throat. “The medical examiner doesn’t anticipate requiring an autopsy unless the family requests one.”

“He had a heart attack?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s no need.” I let the sheet fall over his body and turn to face Kaden. “Call the funeral home. The one Mother prefers. Tell them to bring the Rolls, not the hearse. He would fucking hate a hearse.”

“Already done,” Kaden shares, pushing off the wall. “Should be here in twenty.”

“Good. And fuck… Mom…”

“We’ll go,” Beckett volunteers himself and his twin.

I grab his bicep as he passes, demanding his attention. “If you or Baldwin crack one fucking joke or upset her, I will beat the ever-loving fuck out of you. Do you understand?”

He nods.

I sit in the family room while we wait for the twins to return with Mom, Kaden and Xander at my sides. We are a portrait of grief, Ashford style. Cold, detached, and emotionless.

“Do you think he knew?” Xander asks suddenly, looking up from his phone. “That it was happening?”

“Knew what?” Kaden asks, not looking up from his own screen.

“That he was dying. Do you think he was scared?”