ELENA
I never imagined the day would come when the man I loved would be reduced to nothing more than a memory, his presence fading into the cold stone of his tomb. My knees ached from kneeling on the cold ground for so long, but the pain was nothing compared to the emptiness his sudden death had left in my heart.
As I closed my eyes and ran my fingers lightly over his tomb, a part of me clung to the impossible hope that he would respond—that he would reach out, just as he always did, and gently pull me into his arms, lulling me to sleep like before. But the silence was deafening, and the cold stone beneath my touch only reminded me of the cruel reality—Lorenzo Russo—my husband, the powerful mafia don whose double life I barely understood—is gone.
I felt someone gently pulling me by the shoulder. But, I remain rooted in my spot.
"Elena, it's time," my father said, his voice firm yet laced with the quiet comfort only he could offer.
It was time to lay my husband to rest.
As the weight of those words settled over me, my father pulled me into his arms, holding me in a way that felt both foreign and familiar. That simple embrace stirred a distant memory—the first time he had ever hugged me, on the day my mother died. Just like then, his touch was awkward yet steady, a silent attempt to hold me together when my world was falling apart.
The funeral was a quiet, somber affair. The sky hung heavy with unrelenting gray, as if the universe itself grieved alongside me.
I stood motionless beside my father, my breath shallow, as I watched my husband being lowered into the earth. This wasn't the forever he had promised me. There were no more whispered dreams of growing old together, no more late-night laughter or morning kisses. At just twenty-six, I was already a widow, trapped in a reality I never saw coming.
At that moment, my father squeezed my hand reassuringly, as if he could read my thoughts, grounding me in the storm of my grief.
Then I saw him—Dante Morreti.
He moved toward us with his usual quiet confidence, his dark eyes unreadable. Seeing him approach, I knew I had to pull myself together. Dante had always been my husband's right-hand man, the one who knew every corner of his empire—the empire I had deliberately kept my distance from. But now, that world, the one I had spent years avoiding, was slowly pulling me in, whether I was ready or not.
Mrs. Russo," Dante called, addressing me the same way he always had—formal, unwavering.
I lifted my gaze to him, expecting to find grief etched across his face. But instead, I saw something else. Not sorrow, not the heavy weight of loss I carried, but a quiet calmness. A sense of relief. The realization sent a shiver down my spine.
"There are some people here to see you," he continued, his voice steady. "Would you like to meet them now, or I can always reschedule?"
I forced myself to push aside the unsettling thought and gave a quick nod. Whatever this was, I would deal with it later.
My father nodded knowingly. "I'll be somewhere close by," he said before turning and walking away, giving me space but still keeping watch.
I exhaled softly, smoothing down the black knee-length pencil dress I wore, though I didn't bother with my face—I knew it was already a mess.
A woman approached, offering her condolences before moving on, followed by a few others. I acknowledged them with quiet nods, my mind elsewhere, wondering where Dante had gone.
Then, I spotted him.
He was making his way back toward me, but my attention drifted past him, landing on the two men walking just behind him. One of them, in particular, made my breath hitch. He was tall, his presence commanding even in the subdued atmosphere of the funeral. Dressed in a tailored black suit that clung to his broad shoulders and lean frame with effortless precision, he moved with an air of quiet authority. His dark hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, emphasizing the sharp cut of his jaw. But it was his eyes that truly held me captive—cold, calculating, yet strangely magnetic, as if they could strip away pretense and see straight into my soul. A slow, deliberate gaze flicked over me, and though he said nothing, I felt the weight of his attention like a silent danger.
Dante immediately stepped beside me, perhaps sensing my unease around these unfamiliar men.
"Mrs. Russo," the second man spoke up, his voice smooth yet measured. "My deepest condolences for your loss. My name is Lucas, and this is Deluca."
"Nice to meet you," the other man—Deluca—added, his tone devoid of warmth. "Once again, I'm sorry for the loss of your husband."
He extended his hand toward me, and though I hesitated, politeness won over. The moment our palms met, a sharp chill raced down my spine, an unsettling current that forced me to meet his gaze. Cold, calculating eyes locked onto mine, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, as if he could feel the impact of his presence on me and enjoyed it.
Quickly, I pulled my hand away and turned to Lucas, extending my hand toward him instead—anything to break the spell Deluca had just cast over me.
We'll be seeing you around. Hopefully, you'll do better than your late husband," Deluca said, his expression unreadable. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his strides unhurried, confident. Lucas hesitated for a brief moment before offering me a polite bow, then hurried after him.
"You can't continue any dealings with Mr. Adrian Deluca," Dante murmured beside me, his voice low and firm.
"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Dante remained silent for a few seconds, his jaw tightening. Then, finally, he spoke. "Because he was your husband's sworn enemy..." He trailed off, but he didn't need to say more.
A cold realization settled over me, chilling me to the bone. My breath caught in my throat as the truth clicked into place.
I might have just met my husband's killer.