Page 71 of King Of Order

That minute-by-minute knowledge was my saving grace, and I held on to the schedule in my mind like a lifeline.

The body was laid in the expensive flower-lined casket with an artful design, any trace of a bullet wound masked with intricate makeup.

It sat on a gold platform, ready to be lowered into the grave.

Claudio and Aldo, both who’d arrived before us, greeted me with fake smiles and obligatory cheek kisses.

It was a show for the public, but we all were cognizant of the truth.

This family was rotten from the inside out, and my siblings would be the first to sell me down the river to cover their asses.

I sat in the front row, Rio on one side and my brothers on the other.

A violinist played his favorite song, a haunting melody that should’ve stirred something in me. But I had nothing in me to give. Not a tear, not a pang of sadness. Just emptiness.

The clergyman began to speak, offering hollow words about my father’s greatness.

Claudio spoke on behalf of the family, giving a moving eulogy that no one bought.

When he wound up, a cast of men lowered the casket, covered in roses and carnations, into the earth.

My brothers and I threw clods of dirt after it as it descended.

Before the priest sang out the final benediction, it was over.

The aftermath was a continuation of the charade.

I had to smile and thank people for coming, to pretend their sympathy wasn’t paper-thin. ‘He was a great man,’ they’d say, one after the other, as if repeating it would cleanse Olivio of his sins.

I nodded, smiled, and went through the motions, though my insides were as numb as the rain-soaked air we stood in.

After fifteen minutes of polite chat, I squeezed Rio’s arm.

He got the memo.

Lifting his hand to ward off further sympathizers, he led me back to the limo, helped me in, and pulled off.

As we drove, I stared into the distance, lost in reverie.

Somehow, my hand remained in his all the way to the mansion.

Holding me together.

VALERIO

The downpour slowed by the time the wake started, but the mood was heavier than ever. We were at Olivio Tirone’s residence, a cold, towering structure that appeared more of a fortress than a home.

Inside, guests filled every corner—mobsters, business people, and so-called family friends, all mingling with fake smiles and too much liquor.

I kept close to Chiara, eyes locked on her as she navigated the endless condolences.

She was beautiful, regal even, in her black attire, but the strain was showing.

Her hands trembled each time someone new approached, and I tagged a hollow look in her eyes that told me this was more than just grief.

It was exhaustion. Anger. Fear.

I marked a heavyset man with greasy hair and a too-tight suit, breaking away from his group and heading straight for her.

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