Page 288 of Legacy
Introductions pass. Nods. Embraces. Riot gives me a sharp look that I return with one of my own before we move to the cars.
Adriana insists on the middle seat between Vasilisa and Elena, like she already knows they’ll need her warmth. Riot takes the rear. Luca and Gio flank the SUV in separate vehicles, with Nico and Romeo leading.
The drive doesn’t take long. The trees thin. The air changes.
The lake is exactly as I remember it—still, blue, untouched by the kind of blood that stains everything else.
My mother brought us here first. Before the war. When we were just kids, unaware of the weight of my father’s title.
Santo read beside her on the shore, quiet and still even then. Elena was just a baby. I remember the cold rush of the water on my skin and my father’s voice behind me, narrating some old tale like the world would never crack open the way it did.
Now he’s ash in an urn.
Santo goes first. His hands steady. His face unreadable. But I see the way Vasilisa watches him like she knows he’s breaking somewhere no one else can see.
Elena takes the urn next, and her sobs begin before the first handful hits the breeze. Riot moves behind her like it’s natural and places a hand on her shoulder. She lets him.
Then it’s my turn.
I tip the last of my father into the wind, over the wild bluebells our mother loved. And for one fragile second, I can almost hear her laugh.
Adriana’s hand finds mine. She doesn’t speak. Just holds.
She never tries to take the grief away. She just makes it bearable.
***
The estate is already full by the time we return. Santo’s staff merges with mine in seamless rhythm, his chef Julian working beside my father’s chef Rodrigo in the kitchen.
People whisper. Murmur. Women who barely knew my father cry softly into champagne flutes.
My wife squeezes my hand before slipping forward into the crowd like she was born for this. I let her go, watching her command the room the way I command men. Different weapons. Same result.
She takes condolences with grace, with poise, offering softness where I have none to give.
I nod. Thank. Accept.
For Elena’s sake. For Santo’s. For mine.
Eventually, Elena slips upstairs to breathe, Riot trailing behind like a sentry. Adriana stays downstairs, and I watch her navigate the room like the queen she is.
In awe.
My wife is a vision.
The quartet plays something delicate in the corner, strings drifting through the air like smoke. Vasilisa leans into Santo as he stands off to the side, silent and unflinching, her hand threaded with his.
I wonder what my mother would’ve said about this room filled with people mourning a man who never quite knew how to love anyone but her.
The service ends without drama. Without speeches from us. We let others tell the stories they need to tell.
I don’t need to speak. My presence says enough.
Eventually, the crowd thins. The noise dulls. It’s just us again.
Me. Santo. Vasilisa. Elena. Adriana.
All standing in the quiet, like we’re waiting for someone to tell us what comes next.
