2 — Burial

Ethan’s POV

The priest’s voice drifted over the cemetery. He was trying to be comforting, I think, but his words felt distant and meaningless.

“We commend their souls to God, trusting in His mercy and grace…”

I stood with my family, fists tight at my sides. Two coffins sat there, dark and still, waiting to go into the ground. My mom cried quietly into her handkerchief, her eyes shadowed with fatigue. Gianna, my little sister, clung to her arm, tears running down her face. Her hands shook like leaves in the wind.

“Be strong, Gia,” I whispered, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You gotta be strong for him.”

Dad stood stiff, almost like a statue. I’d never seen him cry, not even when he had been badly injured. Not now. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard. But I could feel him holding everything in. He was the boss. He couldn’t let anyone see weakness. Caleb was his son, his flesh and blood, and Uncle Sam, his brother, but Dad never let himself break down.

As for me, I hadn't gotten over Caleb's death. Holy shit. Last time we spoke, I was blaming him for his drinking. I blamed myself. What if he had stayed angry with me when he left this world? Anyway, the damage was done.

Around us, aunts and cousins bowed their heads, whispering prayers or letting silent tears fall.

I held my breath as the first coffin went down. The rope creaked, then snapped tight. The coffin settled into the ground. Caleb… gone. He was only sixteen. I, being four years older, thought I should’ve been the one to go instead. And then Uncle Sam… gone too. My chest ached.

Mom gasped softly, clutching her dress. Gianna’s small hands found mine, desperate for comfort I couldn’t give. I stared at the soil covering my family, at the black shapes that would never move again and that I saw for the last time.

Time seemed to slow, the priest’s words lost to the wind.

“May the land of our ancestors be light to them, and may God welcome them into his peace.”

Dad’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, hard and focused, but I felt the weight pressing down on him anyway.

I lifted my head, and across the cemetery, I saw someone for whom I couldn't define what I felt. Luca. Standing a distance away, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He leaned against his Ferrari, motionless. Our eyes met for a second. Pain, anger, longing, fear. All of it passed between us in that split moment. Then he straightened, got in his car, and drove off. The engine faded.

I looked back at the graves, chest tightening. For a moment, life, my life, was worth nothing to me.

··•·•·•··

Back at the house, I couldn’t sit still. I ended up at the living room window, staring out. That same boring sedan was parked down the street. No markings, but everyone knew it meant cops. They’d been crawling all over our lives since the bomb, watching the house, the clubs… everything. Acting like they were “keeping the peace.”

Like things weren’t already about to explode. Everyone was pissed, itching to strike back. Dad was the only thing holding them back. I’d heard the guys muttering, calling him weak, scared. He took it, but I saw the look in his eyes. He knew something we didn’t. A straight-up war with the Vitales would feel good, sure but it would destroy everything. And those cops? They were just waiting for an excuse to bust us all down.

Three days after the funerals, the house was still heavy.

I was in the hall when John, the butler, opened the front door. A man in a black suit stood there, holding a bunch of white lilies.

“For the Blackwood family,” he said. “With condolences from Don Vitale.”

The butler glanced at me, then led him inside. Dad appeared from his office almost immediately, like he’d been waiting for something to break the quiet. His eyes went straight to the flowers, then to the white envelope tucked between the stems.

“Give it here,” he said.

The man handed it over. Dad tore it open and read in silence. His jaw tightened, eyes hardening with each line. When he finished, he folded the paper neatly, pulled out a silver lighter, and held it over the envelope. The flames burned the paper, curling it into ash.

He looked up at the messenger. “This is my reply. Tell Vitale I don’t want his flowers, or his sympathy.”

The man glanced at the lilies. “Should I leave them, sir?”

Dad stepped closer, towering. “No. Take them back. Tell your Don that Dominic Blackwood does not grieve with his enemies.”

Dor a moment, the room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the burning paper. The man nodded stiffly, clutching the ruined gesture to his chest. “Yes, sir.”

Dad turned back toward his office. “Good. Now go.” he said without turning back. He was focused despite what everyone thought of him, he didn't waver. And I knew him well enough to know he was up to something and we'll soon find out.

The front door slammed behind him. I stared at the blackened scraps on the floor. The message was clear: no peace would come.

A few hours later, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. My heart jumped. These days, any call could be bad news.

I answered without a word.

“Hello. Ethan?” the voice was quiet, calm, but it sent a chill straight through me.

“It’s Luca Vitale. Don’t hang up,” he said quickly. “Just… hear me out. Please.”

“How did you get this number?” I asked flatly.

A short, quiet laugh. “I’m a Vitale. Nothing is impossible.” Then his voice got serious. “I need to see you.”

“What?”

“Somewhere neutral. I don’t want to hurt you. But we have to talk.”

“Why would I trust you? Why would I meet the man who… who killed my family?”

“Please, Caleb. Don’t jump to conclusions. I give you my word. We need to talk face to face. Not over the phone.” His voice was almost pleading.

“Your word isn’t good enough.”

A pause. Then: “It was me.” His voice lowered. “I sent the letter, the flowers… in my father’s name. He didn’t know. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Maybe it would help. But it just made everything worse, didn’t it?”

“And what did you expect?” I hissed. My voice was low but sharp. “That we’d thank you? That your flowers would bring my brother back? You’re naive. We’re Blackwoods. We have honor.”

For a moment, only his breathing on the line.

Then: “Look, I get it. More than you know. But we have nothing to do with what happened to your family. You and I… we’re called to become heirs. Whether we like it or not. We can sit back, do nothing, and let everyone bleed. Or…”

He let it hang there.

“Or we can try to stop it. Before it’s too late.”

The silence felt heavy. My heart thumped in my ears. It was the stupidest idea ever. A trap, for sure.

But then I pictured Caleb’s coffin. Dad’s tired eyes.

“Okay,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Okay?” Luca sounded surprised.

“Yeah. Tell me where.”