Page 85 of Inheritance
Caroline stood a few feet away, wrapped in a black shawl. Her face was blank, but tormented with grief and guilt.
Isabelle stood behind her, hands clasped in front of her. Her face was carved in stone, but there was tension in the corners ofher mouth, a wet shimmer in her lashes that hadn’t quite fallen. She blinked too often for someone keeping it together.
Damien’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his hands kept twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them. His coat hung open, his tie crooked. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Gabriel didn’t speak at first. He just stood beside the casket. Tall. In control. Strong.
Then, without a word, he reverently crouched beside the mound of dirt. His hand sank into it, fingers curling slowly, deliberately. He rose and tossed the dirt into the grave. It landed with a soft thud against the polished wood.
He turned to Damien next.
Damien hesitated, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. But he stepped forward, scooped a handful of dirt, and cast it into the grave. Gabriel leaned in, murmured something low in his ear. Damien nodded once, stiffly, then stepped back into line.
Isabelle didn’t need prompting. She stepped forward on her own, her composure cracking just enough for a muffled sob to slip loose as she released the dirt from her hand. Then she turned away quickly, chin tucked, face hidden.
Caroline was next.
She didn’t move.
Gabriel didn’t say anything, but kept looking at her.
A beat passed. Then another. Her lips pressed into a flat line. She shook her head once.
Still, he didn’t look away.
Eventually, with an almost imperceptible tremor, she stepped forward, scooped the earth with unsteady fingers, and let it fall into the grave. She didn’t look down.
I stepped forward.
The casket gleamed beneath the thin curtain of rain. Water beaded and streamed across the lacquered surface, catchingflecks of dirt from where it had already begun to collect. I stared for a breath too long, then released my handful.
Gabriel stood at the head of the grave, rain soft against his dark coat. Broad shoulders squared against the weight of reality, jaw set, profile sharp and still—as if carved from stone. The drizzle caught in his hair, on his lashes, ran down the side of his face, trickling from the tips of his fingers at his side.
“My father wasn’t a perfect man.”
The words landed with weight—truthful, sharp.
“He was hard. Determined.
Brutal when he had to be. Brutal when he didn’t.”
A pause.
“He wasn’t perfect, but he demanded perfection—from himself more than anyone else. He had faults that he could only see in others, and a masterful way of teaching. To know what he really felt and thought, I had to look beyond the surface of his expressions, his words, his actions. My only regret is realizing that weeks ago instead of decades ago.”
A few pained murmurs drifted through the crowd, soft and grief-stricken.
“He carried this family through war. Through betrayal. Through loss. And when his hands were bloodied, he didn’t hide them. He bore the cost of every decision. Every consequence.”
He looked at the casket, and for a half second something flickered—loss, raw and private, caged behind his eyes.
“He died the same way he lived. As a leader, willing to sacrifice.”
Silence followed. They all stayed still, watching him.
Gabriel scanned the crowd—slowly, deliberately—meeting each man’s gaze. There was no grief in his eyes. Only caged fire, steady and commanding.
A ripple passed through the gathered men. A subtle straightening of posture. A nod here. A reverent lowering of heads, just slightly.
