The Funeral

My father is dead.

I stand beside the casket in black Valentino, the pearls he gave me for my eighteenth birthday cool against my throat. The priest drones on about eternal rest, about peace, about meeting our maker.

I don't hear any of it.

Three days ago, I was planning a charity gala. Worrying about seating arrangements and floral centerpieces. Normal things. Daughter-of-a-successful-businessman things.

Then the hospital called.

Heart attack, they said. Quick. Painless.

A lie. The first of many.

The mourners blur together. Business associates with practiced grief. Politicians with careful condolences. Women whose names I never learned but whose jewels my father probably paid for.

None of them look at me.

That should have been the first sign.

"Valentina."

Uncle Carlo's hand on my elbow. His cologne, too sweet, always too sweet, settling over me like a film.

"It's time, cara. We need to go to the cemetery."

I nod. I haven't spoken since I identified the body. The words are stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

We walk toward the doors.

They swing open before we reach them.

The man who enters makes the air change. Everyone feels it, conversations die mid-word, bodies angle toward the exits.

He's tall. Dark hair, sharp suit, green eyes that scan the room like he's cataloging threats. A scar cuts across his jaw, pale against olive skin.

Striking. The kind of face you remember from a wanted poster.

He walks directly toward the casket.

"Who..." Carlo's voice dies.

The stranger stops beside my father's body. Looks down at it.

Then he spits.

"Rest in hell, you piece of shit."

The world goes silent.

I should scream. Call for security. Do something other than stand frozen while this man desecrates my father's funeral.

But I can't move.

He turns. Sees me.

His gaze sharpened. A predator recognizing prey. Recognition? Satisfaction?

He walks toward me.

Uncle Carlo steps between us. "You can't be here. This is a private..."

The stranger doesn't even look at him. Just moves him aside like furniture.

And then he's in front of me.

"Valentina Santoro." Not a question.

"Yes." Barely a sound.

"Do you know who I am?"

I shake my head.

"My name is Lorenzo Moretti." He lets the name settle. "Your father killed my family fifteen years ago. My mother. My father. My seven-year-old sister."

The words don't make sense. They're just sounds, noise without meaning.

"He, what?"

"Your father was a murderer." Lorenzo's voice is conversational. Pleasant, almost. "He ordered the massacre of my entire family because my father wouldn't bend to his business interests."

"That's not, he was a businessman..."

"He was mafia, Valentina." Lorenzo leans closer. "And three hours ago, I watched him die."

The room tilts.

"The heart attack..."

"Was a bullet. Small caliber. Placed correctly, it mimics cardiac arrest." He's still speaking so calmly. Like we're discussing the weather. "I stood over him while he begged. Watched the recognition in his eyes. He knew exactly who I was and why he was dying."

I'm going to be sick.

"You're lying." It comes out thin. Desperate.

"I never lie." He takes my chin in his hand. Firm. Not gentle. "Your father built an empire on blood. My blood. And now that empire, including you, belongs to me."

"You can't..."

"I already have." He releases me. "You have ten minutes to say goodbye. Then we leave."

He walks away.No one reaches for a phone. No one calls for help. The room understands something I don't: the rules here are different from the ones I grew up believing in.

I stand in the middle of my father's funeral, surrounded by people who know things I don't.

Things about my father.

Things about my life.

Things that are about to destroy everything I thought I knew.

Uncle Carlo appears at my side. His face is gray. Terrified.

"Valentina, listen to me. Whatever he says, whatever he shows you, don't trust him."

"Is it true?"

He doesn't answer.

That's answer enough.

My father was a monster.

And now I belong to the man who killed him.