Page 142 of Stricken

So, that's what I do.

I vow to uphold the traditions the Morelli name has been upholding all these years.

I vow even though on the inside I'm already dead myself.

The funeral is a somber affair. The air itself inside the house feels heavy with the weight of his passing. And that heaviness follows us to the cemetery.

There, I suddenly realize I stand at the edge of the grave, in a black suit. Every moment up until now has been a blur. I've been on autopilot for days and in this instant—of all the moments—my mind clears. I scan the dark crowd, the sea of mourners gathered to pay their respects, looking for at least one friendly face. God knows I could use it.

But these people are weary of me. These people know Tony left everything to his only nephew and some are skeptic. Some are scared. Others are jealous. These are a few that are indifferent too. For them, the business will go on as usual.

Beside me, on the right, Aunt Chiara weeps softly, her tears hidden behind black lace. She leans on Roberto for support, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. But even in her grief, there's a strength to her, a quiet resilience that speaks of the trials she's endured.

And then there's Salvatore, standing apart from the rest of us, flanked by the security detail. Not his. Mine. Just in case. His eyes are fixed on the casket as it's lowered into the ground. His gaze is hard, envious. He looks like a man on a mission, a man with nothing left to lose. Except for maybe his limbs.

My cousin Viola is to my left. She's been mostly quiet ever since she flew in from California, keeping to herself.

The family attorneys are a row behind. A grim reminder of the business that must be attended to after we return home, perhaps even on the way.

With Claudio, who managed the majority of family affairs, now being a mummy on the way back to Mexico—a present to El Jefe—things need to be handled fast, before there's an opening for someone to come and snatch what's ours.

I turn my attention back to the priest, his words washing over me like a tide. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he intones, his voice carrying across the cemetery, a mix of English and Latin.

But even as he speaks of eternal rest and the promise of salvation, I can't help but feel a sense of unease. For in the world of the Morellis, there is no peace, no respite from the constant struggle for power.

As my gaze darts over from person to person, I catch the sight of the Sicilian. The soldier Tony summoned from Italy right before death. I don't like him lingering in the corners of the house even though he insists on staying. For my protection. But I don't feel protected when he's around. On the contrary. So I'm contemplating sending him back to Sicily. I'll choose my own people. People I trust.

* * *

The days after the funeral slip by in a daze of meetings and briefings, as I throw myself into the task of assuming control of the family's operations. It's a daunting undertaking, but one that I approach with a sense of responsible determination. My head hurts and my hands are a constant ache, fingers numb from gripping too tightly onto this new life that's somehow mine.

Funny thing but now that I have what I've always wished for, I don't enjoy it one bit.

Most of the time, I sit in my uncle's office, poring over ledgers and contracts, trying to make sense of the alliances and rivalries that he navigated so deftly. I'm yet to choose my adviser, but the only person I am certain is on my side—Costa—has disappeared.

I haven't been able to get a single word to him and he hasn't contacted me in what seems like an eternity. At this point, my hope is lost. I can't think of the reason why he's gone except for the fact that he's been caught by the cartel people in Guanajuato.

The weight of his absence is somehow just as heavy as Tony's.

But I refuse to let it break me. I steel myself against the grief, the doubts, the fears that threaten to overwhelm me. I know that I can't afford to show any weakness, not when so much is at stake. People depend me. Not just Chiara and Viola. Not just deadbeat Roberto who is drinking his sanity away and his poor wife. But people who work for the Morelli.

So I meet with the attorneys, the accountants, the enforcers who keep our empire running. I listen, I learn, I make decisions with a swift and ruthless efficiency that surprises even me.

And slowly, gradually, I begin to feel a sense of control, a sense of purpose that drives me forward. I may not have chosen to take this path the way it happened, but I'll be damned if I let anyone else dictate my destiny.

At night, when all is said and done, Vlad still haunts. The feel of his body against mine is a memory I can't seem to erase from my head no matter how hard I try.

But in the morning, I push those thoughts aside, bury them deep within the recesses of my mind. I can't afford to dwell on the past, not when the future of the family rests on my shoulders.

And so I press on, day after day, night after night, driven by a need to honor my uncle's legacy, to prove myself worthy of the mantle he's passed on to me.

And then, one evening, my phone rings, piercing the silence of the office. Jolted out of my thoughts, I glance at the screen, unsure of what to expect. Another call from a lawyer or an accountant, but the blocked number stops me cold.

I find myself reaching for the phone with a sense of dread.

"Padrino?"

Costa.

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