Page 85 of Last Hand

The grass is still wet from last night’s rain. The ground gives under my heels as I step toward the temporary headstone, every inch of me wrapped in black. A black dress. Black gloves. Black thoughts. Though the sky is clear now, the kind of bright blue that feels like a trick, it’s too soft, too kind for a day like this.

There are no chairs. No priest. No guests.

Just us.

My father stands to my left, hands clenched behind his back. He’s wearing his wedding ring again, something he rarely wore because he was scared of ruining it or losing it at work.

Leone is silent, a dark figure beside me, his hand at the small of my back. Milo flanks the other side, face unreadable behind his sunglasses, his jaw’s clenched like he’s chewing back something sharp.

The twins Anya and Mila hold small wildflowers in their fists, picked from the edge of the cemetery as we walked in. Their little shoes are muddy. Their dresses are too big. They don’t fully understand what this is, they just know it matters because people look sad. And then Emma, her eyes stare at theheadstone, and she must be having the same thoughts as me. How do you grieve a woman you hated, only she would have one other thing playing on her mind, added on top. I’m not sure if that would make it easier or harder on her? How do you grieve a woman you don’t remember?

We stand in silence for a beat too long, the breeze tugging at the hem of my dress. I step forward, alone.

Her headstone is simple. No quotes. No titles.

Rebecca. Beloved mother. Finally at peace.

I clear my throat, though the words are already stuck behind it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I begin, my voice soft. “I don’t know how to bury someone who left such a complicated mark on my life.”

The silence hangs thick, like the air before a storm. Leone’s hand digs into my back, not gentle and not harsh either—more like a nudge saying, “Keep going,” or maybe just reminding me he’s got my back. As if I could forget. Milo stands frozen in place, as if carved from stone. Emma’s eyes are glued to the gravestone, her expression haunted and distant, as though she expects it to leap up and bite her.

I stare at the name etched into the cold granite, struggling. I try to summon any warm memories of her.

“She did what she had to,” I murmur, more for myself than anyone else. The words hang in the air between us like fragile threads connecting past and present.

The twins, Anya and Mila, step forward, clumsy and sweet. They lay their wildflowers on the mound of dirt. Mud smears on Mila’s pale pink dress. They peer up at me, their eyes wide and questioning, expecting some kind of cue.

I offer them a small, tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s okay,” I whisper, though it’s a lie. Nothing about this is okay.

Taking a deep breath, I reach into the small clutch I’m carrying. My fingers close around a single, wilting black rose – one I’d plucked from Leone’s gardens near the front gates, its thorns pricking my gloved palm.

“This is for the darkness you suffered,” I say, my voice a little stronger now, a little harder. “And for the strength you gave us because of it.” I toss the rose onto the grave. It lands starkly against the raw earth.

I step aside, letting the words settle. Anya and Mila come forward without prompting. They each place a flower at the base of the stone. Anya kisses it, pressing her lips against the hard stone. Mila just leans her cheek against it for a moment before turning back and gripping my father’s pant leg.

He lifts them both, one in each arm, like they’re part of him.

His eyes find mine. I walk closer to him, stopping only inches away. “How are you… really?”

His face folds. Not into tears—into something softer. Wearier.

“Barely,” he says. “But… they help.”

He tilts his chin at the twins, now clinging to his shirt with their little fists

“You mean that, don’t you?” I ask. My voice isn’t accusing. Just quiet. Tired while trying to understand where my father’s head is at.

“Your mother was the only woman I ever loved. They may not be mine by blood, but they were hers. That’s all that matters to me.”

I blink back the sudden sting behind my eyes. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out, its folded piece of paper.

“I found this in Anya’s backpack. I think… I think she wanted it to be read when you were ready.” He places it in my palm, and I swear I feel it buzz with quiet energy. “Your mother wrote onefor each of you. She knew she wasn’t getting out, Firefly, she only intended for you and the girls to escape.” I swallow down his words painfully. I don’t open it. Not yet.

We leave the cemetery quietly. No one speaks much on the drive back. The twins are asleep before we’re even out of the gate. Dad rests his head back, eyes closed, breathing deep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane, and Emma stares out the window vacantly, I nudge her with my foot, and she smiles sadly.

Rocco drives. Milo’s in the back of the limousine with me and Leone. One hand resting on my thigh, grounding me. My fingers toy with the folded letter in my lap. We drop my sisters and father back home before heading home ourselves. Today doesn’t feel real, none of it does, maybe it never will.

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