My Ruthless Mafia Saviour

"We are live outside St. Augustine's Cathedral in Manhattan, New York, where mourners have gathered this morning to say a final goodbye to Liana Hayes, heiress to Hayes Holdings, one of the largest holding companies in the country."

The reporter stood beneath a sky the color of wet ash, her coat drawn tight against a wind that carried the first real chill of autumn, and behind her the black town cars lined the curb for what looked like half a mile, their drivers standing beside them with their hands folded and their heads bowed.

"Liana Hayes was only twenty four years old, and in three days she was set to be married. Instead, the people who loved her have gathered this morning not to celebrate a wedding, but to mourn a life that ended far too soon."

The cameras swept slowly across the crowd, catching men in dark tailored suits staring at nothing in particular and women pressing handkerchiefs beneath their veils, careful not to smudge their makeup even in grief, and it struck anyone watching that this was a city which rarely paused for anyone, and yet here it was, paused entirely, for her.

Inside the cathedral, every pew was full, and the air had grown thick and sweet with flowers, white roses tangled with lilies in such abundance that their fragrance reached the doors before anyone had even stepped through them. Near the altar sat a large framed photograph of Liana, her smile caught mid laugh, bright and unguarded, entirely unaware of the ending someone else had already written for her.

When the service finally let out, grief spilled onto the cathedral steps in slow, murmuring waves, and that was where the reporter found him.

Lucas Carter stood near the entrance in a black suit pressed to perfection, his eyes rimmed red and swollen in a way that looked, to anyone watching, unmistakably real, and he carried himself with the weight of a man who hadn't slept properly in days, who had spent his nights staring at the ceiling instead of closing his eyes.

"Mr Carter," the reporter said softly, lowering her microphone halfway, offering him the smallest mercy. "Would you be willing to share a few words?"

Lucas turned to the camera slowly, as though it took real effort to lift his gaze that high, and his jaw tightened while his hands, clasped loosely in front of him, trembled just enough for the lens to catch it.

"Liana was supposed to be my wife in three days." His voice broke on the last word, splintering down the middle, and he looked at the ground before lifting his eyes again, blinking hard against whatever he was fighting to hold back. "I keep thinking about all the things we planned. Silly things. Where we would go for our honeymoon. What our children might have looked like one day." He drew in a breath that shuddered on its way out of him. "I don't know how to move through any of this without her. I just wish, more than anything, that she was still here."

He pressed his lips together and turned his face away, as though the weight of his own words had finally become too much to carry in front of a camera, and the reporter didn't push, letting the silence stretch instead, the kind of silence that reaches through a screen and settles quietly in a stranger's chest.

A few feet away,Grace Hayes stood with one gloved hand resting against the cathedral railing, a black veil drawn low over her face, and when the reporter approached her gently, almost apologetically, Grace only shook her head and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, her shoulders trembling as though speech itself had become impossible. A young aide stepped forward quickly, explaining in a hushed voice that Mrs Hayes was too overcome to speak, and the reporter nodded with quiet understanding, thanking her for her time before stepping back.

Behind them, an attendant wheeled Nathan Hayes carefully down the ramp at the side of the cathedral, easing over the uneven stone with practiced patience. He had been paralyzed for years now, confined to that chair since an accident no one ever spoke of, his legs long since stopped answering any command he gave them. His hands rested still and slightly curled in his lap, and even his voice, when it came at all, emerged slow and effortful.He kept his eyes fixed ahead, toward the cars at the curb, and said nothing, because very little came easily to him anymore. No one offered him a microphone. No one asked him to speak. They let him pass instead, murmuring their condolences to the space around him rather than to him directly, the way they always had.

The reporter faced the camera once more as the crowd began to thin behind her.

"A devastating loss for one of New York's most prominent families. Liana Hayes is survived by her father, Nathan Hayes, and her stepmother, Grace Hayes. Funeral services have concluded, and the family has asked for privacy in the days ahead."

The broadcast cut back to the studio.

The house was quiet when they returned, quiet in that particular way a place feels after a performance, once the curtain falls and the audience finally goes home, and Grace peeled her gloves off finger by finger as she crossed into the sitting room, tossing them carelessly onto the arm of the couch before drawing the veil back from her face and letting out a long, slow breath, as though she had been holding it since the moment they first stepped inside the cathedral.

Lucas followed behind her, loosening his tie with one hand, and dropped onto the couch with his head falling back against the cushion, eyes closed for a moment of rest that felt entirely earned.

"So," he said, cracking one eye open toward her. "How was my acting."

Grace turned, an eyebrow lifting as she studied him, arms folding slowly across her chest.

"Seven out of ten," she said.

Lucas sat up straight, mouth falling open in mock offense. "Seven? Are you serious? I had that reporter nearly in tears."

"You oversold the honeymoon line." Grace crossed the room toward him, her steps slow and deliberate, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "No man grieving his fiancée thinks about vacations three days after she disappears."

"I thought I acted well," he muttered, though there was no real sting behind it, only the sulk of a man who liked being told he had done a good job.

"You did fine." Grace leaned down, bracing one hand on the armrest beside him, her face inches from his. "Fine isn't the same as perfect."

"Feels like you're grading me."

"I am grading you." Her voice dropped low, threaded with quiet amusement. "Someone has to."

He looked up at her, and something sharp and knowing passed between them, the kind of look shared only by two people who had built far more between them than either of them let the world see, and when she finally closed the distance and kissed him, there was nothing grieving about it at all.