Chapter 2

VERA'S POV.

Vince took over with the rites, they let me be and prepare for the burial of Richard Constantin. I was questioned but I had played my cards right, I was in a blind spot on the cameras and it only showed when I rushed to take the gun and started screaming. 

It's such a shame none of these men have an actual brain, they all underestimate me just like my stupid dead husband, although I won't blame them I'm the wife who cooks, cleans, lets her husband beat her up repeatedly, and still falls at his feet. 

A widow at twenty-three. 

My birthday is in two days and I plan on doing something for myself. Maybe after they let me out of this hellhole, I hope they give all his assets to me out of pity too. 

And so here I am, bawling my eyes out as we stood in front of the casket, dressed in a black body-fitted Dior dress with a black veil covering my face. 

"It's okay Veronica, he wouldn't want you to cry like this," One of the women who attended said, trying to pacify me so I would stop embarrassing them. 

"He's- he was... My husband..." I hiccuped breaking down once again with a loud wail. 

A pathetic display. 

One I had to keep up with for a month so they wouldn't suspect anything, she sighed and I knew what she was thinking. 

What they are all thinking, he died because a whore poisoned him and I'm crying for him, someone who made my life miserable. 

Everything went as planned, his men vouched for me when other members of the clan came and my father sent his underboss too. 

All members of the outfit attended the burial ceremony and stopped by the casket to show their last respect, although some seemed happy about it Richard was known to be cruel and was friends with others with black hearts like him, his best friend Don Alfredo was currently opposite us whispering something into the ear of my father's underboss Enzo. 

Enzo nodded and my gaze met with Alfredo's and he gave me a leer smirk licking his dry lips. Of all the men who showed interest in me, he's the one I find most repulsive. 

I stood up from the ground and the women behind me helped me arrange my dress, I wiped the tears on my face and acted like I was trying to get it together. 

"There you go, you'll feel better if you stop crying" Brenda, or whatever her name is patted my back and I nodded sniffling. 

Just then there was a hush silence and the women gasped their attention behind me, I didn't know why everyone had suddenly gone mute and I tried my best to ignore whatever it was they were looking at but my curiosity got the best of me so I turned. 

My eyes widened at the familiar tall silhouette walking towards us dressed in black, I had seen him once with Richard and I remembered how I found his gaze on me disturbing. 

A black coat hung on his broad squared shoulders and the dark gray long sleeve under a black vest, the black gloved hands tucked in the pocket of black slacks, each stride emitted power and control the type that would make you fall down and cower in fear without being told. 

His icy aura filled the air and it was as if everyone was holding their breath, everyone including me. 

Fuck this, I won't be unnerved by Luan Valdrin, I survived my father and I survived Richard Constantin. 

Luan Valdrin is the top and most feared mafia boss in the country and the world at large, even the government wouldn't dare go against him, he has resources everywhere. And he's as heartless as they come even Richard is deemed fragile compared to the Albanian mafia. 

A lethal monster.  

Richard was obsessed with him and looked up to him like a role model although he is younger than most of them, it was rumored that he took over his father's clan at the age of fifteen. He killed his father and took over, ruling with an iron fist. 

My husband invited him for dinner once a few months ago and that's how I got to know him. 

I straightened my posture and lifted my chin as he got closer, his men trailing behind him. Then he stopped in front of me, the women started muttering to themselves with their heads bowed. 

He was close enough for me to see his disgustingly good-looking face, his good looks would make you want to do stupid things, I recalled how I froze when he looked at me that day. Like he saw through me, those cold silver orbs resembling a sharp blade, his gaze piercing and intense, he was unlike any man I have ever met, unusually tall and muscular, chestnut brown hair with thick dark brows and hollow cheekbones, a straight nose and full red lips, his jawline so chiseled it's as if God sculpted him by himself. 

The tattoo of two snakes coiling each other on his neck with a lifelike feel to it was visible, along with the gun in his waistband. 

I swallowed hard. 

"Ngushëllime" His deep cold voice washed over me, the Albanian accent thick, and he nodded at the women. They scurried off leaving me alone. 

(Condolences)

That's what he said, my mom is half Albanian and she used the language a lot when she was less sober, so I understand the basics.

His gaze met mine and I shivered under the intensity of his gaze as he scrutinized me then dragged his gaze back to my face, I tried and failed to hide the effect of how he was openly checking me out in front of my husband's casket, my cheeks flushed, I was forced myself to look away wondering if I was hallucinating, then he took a step closer towering over me.

"Të shpreh ngushëllimet e mia më të sinqerta" He said then reached for the open casket dropping a single black rose on the corpse of Richard. 

(I express my deepest condolences)

"Thank you, for coming" My voice was a bit brittle and I lifted my gaze from Richard only to find him beside me, his piercing gaze still on me. 

"He was my friend, it's a shame he died such a mysterious death" He leaned too deeply on the 'mysterious' and I gulped, smothering the panic rising inside me. 

He doesn't know anything. 

It's impossible. 

So I kept quiet, averting my gaze back to Richard wearing a sad look on my face. 

"How did he die?" He questioned and my gaze snapped back to him. 

Why is he asking that? 

Everyone knows how he died, isn't it considered bad manners to ask a young widow who's still grieving how her husband died? 

"Poison, I'm sure you've heard about it," I replied, almost glaring. 

"I just wanted to confirm" He replied and I flinched as his right gloved hand covered my left hand gripping the casket the cold leather rubbed my skin, his masculine cologne flooded my senses making it hard for me to think straight, "I will help you find who did this and make them pay" He proclaimed in a deadly tone.

I panicked but before I could say anything he walked away taking his warmth with him. 

Then it dawned on me, he never makes a public appearance, he could have just sent someone like my father did but he came which means he knows something or he is after something. 

The question is what?