Page 69 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

The room swam around me, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears. “No, that can’t be. He—”

Rafayel was at my side in an instant, his hands firm on my shoulders as though he could anchor me to reality.“Fuck, Leonya. Breathe,”he coaxed in Russian. “Fucking breathe.”

But what would it matter if I did? The walls were caving in again, and a grief deeper than anything I’d ever known swallowed me whole.

I clutched at my stomach instinctively. The tears spilled freely now. I hadn’t made peace with him. I hadn’t said goodbye. My father was gone, and the chance to fix what was broken had gone with him.

****

Five Days Later

It rained a lot today.

As I stood frozen beside his grave, the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and roses. The sky mirrored my heart, overcast and gray, as though the world itself mourned hisabsence. The soft murmur of the priest’s voice barely registered in my ears; I could only hear the echo of my own regrets.

Matteo stood beside me, silent and composed, but his hand gripping mine betrayed his struggle to keep it together. The second I told him, he’d booked the last flight back from Ireland to California. He’d grown so much and looked a lot older and more refined, like a responsible adult. They didn’t have the rosiest father-and-son relationship, but Papa cared for him deeply, and I knew he’d have wanted him to see how manly he’d become. He’d left the path Papa paved for him, but the Colombo blood visibly ran through his veins.

I envied my brother’s strength. My knees felt like they would give out any second, and my body trembled under the burden of guilt.

I stared at the casket, the polished wood glistening with rain, as if the heavens themselves shed tears for him.

The great Enzo Colombo—gone forever.

The words I never said haunted me now, louder than the funeral prayers, louder than the shovels of dirt waiting to bury him away from me. I should have called him. Should have swallowed my pride. Should have told him how much he meant to me before it was too late.

But I hadn’t.

And now, all that was left were broken memories and the hollow ache of what could have been.

“Leo.” Matteo’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts, his hand tightening around mine. I turned to him, his face pale and etched with lines of pain I couldn’t erase. He was strong but not untouched. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting my own misery.

I shook my head, unable to find words. My chest heaved, and I covered my mouth to muffle the sob that clawed its wayup. The tears I had tried to hold back finally spilled, burning hot trails down my cheeks.

“I should’ve….” My voice cracked. “I should’ve told him, Matteo. Papa didn’t know how much I—how much we loved him. How sorry I was.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened, and he pulled me into his arms. His strength, his silent solidarity, was all that kept me from crumbling completely. I pressed my face into his shoulder, letting the sobs shake me, feeling the raw agony that refused to be soothed.

The priest’s voice rose for the final prayer, and Matteo gently released me, guiding me closer to the grave. I stepped forward, my legs trembling, and stared down at the casket. My vision blurred with tears, but I could still see it. The stark reality of it.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words choking me. My fingers gripped the edge of the rose I held, its thorns biting into my skin—a fitting pain. I deserved it.

“I love you,” I said, louder this time, though it felt like shouting into an abyss. The wind carried my words, but I knew they would never reach him. Not now.

I let the rose fall, watching as it landed on the smooth wood, its crimson petals stark against the dark rain-soaked surface. My heart twisted as the first shovelful of earth fell, a dull thud that felt like it echoed in my soul.

Then, I looked up, and I remembered Mama.

“He’s alone.” Salty tears dripped on my lips. “Watch over him, too, okay?”

I took my fingers to my head and my chest and drew the cross to my shoulders.

****

Heavy footsteps approached me, loud against the cobblestones, and when I looked up, it was Marco.

I didn’t bother asking him how he was holding up. He wasn’t. The hardness in his red eyes and the tightness of his jaw were enough evidence.

Without a word, he handed me a folded letter, the edges worn as if someone had held it for far too long. I stared at it, my fingers trembling as I took it from him.

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