Page 18 of His Wife

Our family mausoleum is built in the farthest corner of our estate, a modern designed construction of thick gray granite slabs. The large walk-in, multi-crypt structure has four columns at the front, the DS symbol carved into the wooden doors with a gold plate above it that reads ‘One family. One life.’ It’s the words my grandfather used to say. He would remind me and my brothers of it every time we had a fight among each other. That’s the reason he wanted this mausoleum built; he wanted to keep the family together in life and death. I remember the day I came to this part of the estate with my father when it was still just an open piece of land. He showed me the plans of the building, telling me how civilization has made use of mausoleums for thousands of years. How the pyramids hold the remains of pharaohs and leaders, people of great prestige, and to this day those ancient structures carry with them the legacies of those buried there. And this place, this piece of land will always keep our legacy alive.

I glance at the groundskeeper standing by the back entrance gates—gates that are only ever used for access to the mausoleum and burial site. He’s wearing a suit today. It’s an old suit about two sizes too big for him, the sleeves of the jacket touching his knuckles. But it’s the thought that counts, the fact that he’s here, dressed accordingly so he can pay his respects. I don’t even know his name, one of many of our estate staff. In fact, as I glance around at the other guests who are here now, I don’t know half of these people by name.

Leandra places a white lily on my father’s casket, the hem of her dress flowing around her ankles. Black. I hate it. I hate the color, especially on her. She’s too fucking perfect to wear a color that represents death and mourning.

A tear slips down her cheek, and as she settles next to me, I reach out and wipe it away, leaning closer. “You do not have to mourn him. He was nothing to you.”

She takes my hand, and her eyes meet mine. “I might not have known him well, but I know to you he was everything. I mourn for you, Alexius. For the loss your family is enduring.”

“I don’t want you to feel my pain.”

She gives me a weak smile. “But I do, and nothing can change that.”

If there ever were a time I was acutely aware of how she’s slowly claiming my heart, little by little, piece by piece, it would be now. This moment.

My mother softly sobs next to me, and I let go of Leandra’s hand to watch my father being lowered to the ground, the casket covered with white lilies every family member had placed there.

An ache cracks through my chest, listening to the priest reminding us that we were made from dust, and to dust we shall return. It’s a path we all have to wander down. One day.

My eyes burn, and I clench my jaw to keep my emotions under control. Nicoli, Caelian, and Isaia stand close to my mother, their expressions hard, like mine, but we all mourn. We all feel it so damn deep in our souls, the agonizing ache that reminds us of what we lost. But we choose to keep our grief to ourselves, to show strength in our unity as family rather than sorrow.

The night my father died was the one time I allowed my emotions to control me, to free my tears. And Leandra has been the only person to witness me at my weakest—broken and in her arms. I never wanted her to see me like that, but I couldn’t stop it. Her words, her touch, it was warm, soothing, a solace that tore down every brick wall I hid my grief behind. There’s no denying it. She’s changing me. Making me feel things I never thought I would. And now, while I stay strong to support my grieving mother, Leandra is my only comfort. The one who keeps me from drowning in bottomless grief.

After the last "amen,” people start to scatter off in different directions after saying their final goodbye. I take my mother’s hand, and she dabs away tears beneath her black veil. “I would like to stay here for a while,” she says, her voice shaking. “Until he’s safely resting in his crypt.”

“Then I’ll stay with you.”

“No. I’d like to be alone with him.” She looks up at me. “Please.”

I hate how frail she seems, like she has aged twenty years in only a few days. Everyone can see how lost she is without him, like she’s off-balance, missing her other half.

Squeezing her hand, I lean in to kiss her cheek, the smell of her sorrow drowning out the familiar scent of her perfume.

Maximo is standing a few steps behind my mother, and with a simple nod of my chin, he knows exactly what’s expected of him—to stay close and watch over her. For the last couple of days, we have put the investigation of our sadistic killer on hold, my father’s death giving us the perfect excuse to keep Myth and all the other clubs closed during our time of mourning. It’s given us all some space to breathe and time to prepare for all the changes to come.

Uncle Roberto steps up and leans in to kiss my mother’s cheek. “I’m so sorry for your loss, dear sister.”

She simply nods in reply, her bottom lip trembling as she tries to keep her tears at bay. The hate I feel for my uncle is palpable, and having him here, standing beside my father’s grave, pretending to mourn the loss of his brother-in-law, makes my blood curdle. And when our eyes meet, I silently remind him of my promise—to remove him from this fucking family as soon as I take my father’s place. Soon, he’ll be nothing, his name wiped from the Dark Sovereign dynasty. He plotted to kill my father and erase the entire Del Rossa bloodline but has never been able to. Something tells me my father might have known about my uncle’s vendetta and always managed to keep one step ahead of him, waiting for him to hang himself. But I’m not my father, and I won’t sit around while he schemes his betrayal.

Leandra slips her hand into mine, and I squeeze it, drawing strength from her touch to control myself. No matter how much I want to feel his skull crack under my blade, today is not the day. Soon.

Our footsteps are quiet as we amble down the cobbled path. We don’t speak. The silence is comfortable, and I’m grateful she doesn’t hover or smother me with words of comfort and press me to talk about my feelings. It’s like she knows what I need, and I seem to have become attuned to her in the same way.

“You cried today,” I say simply, staring out in front of us.

“That’s what people do at funerals, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t cry at your mother’s funeral.”

Her grip on my hand tightens, and she takes a few moments before answering, “It’s different.”

“How so?”

She lets go of my hand and lifts her arm, but I grab her wrist before she can scratch behind her ear.

“Why was your mom’s funeral different?”

Her lips pull in a thin line. “Because…you can’t mourn someone when you’re happy they’re gone.”

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