The Funeral

Sera Romano POV

It rained the day we buried Matteo.

Of course it did.

The sky mourned louder than I did louder than any of us dared to.

In this world, grief is weakness. And weakness is death.

The church smelled like incense and old blood. People filled the pews, dressed in black silk and colder silence. Men who’d once toasted with my brother now stared at his coffin like it was a warning.

This is what happens to loyalty in the wrong family.

My father sat at the front, spine straight, hands folded. A marble statue carved in rage and regret. He hadn’t spoken since Matteo’s body was found bullet through the heart, throat slit like a message.

The Romano Syndicate would answer for it. And I’d make sure of that.

A rosary slipped between my fingers. Not for prayer. For focus.

My lips moved with the priest’s words, but my mind stayed on the gun beneath my coat and the name carved into the back of my brain:

*Rivan Blackthorne**.*

Then I felt it. Like a shift in the air. Like poison slipping into the room. My eyes flicked toward the entrance—and there he stood. Tall. Sharp. Ice in a black suit.

Him.

Rivan fucking Blackthorne.

He walked down the aisle like the church belonged to him. Like he wasn’t the reason my brother was in the ground. Not a flicker of remorse. Not a whisper of guilt. He didn’t come to grieve. He came to remind us who won.

He stopped just a few feet away, met my eyes and held them.

No smile. No words.

Just the same damn stare he gave Matteo the last time they spoke. Right before my brother pulled a blade. Right before someone pulled a trigger. My fingers curled into fists around the rosary beads, cutting my skin. But I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because this wasn’t the place. And I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

“Peace be with you,” the priest muttered.

Fuck peace. As they lowered Matteo into the earth, I whispered a promise into the rain:

"I’ll give you your justice, brother. Even if I have to marry the devil to do it."

And the devil…was standing right behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

Not even when I felt the heat of his presence cold heat, the kind that burns slow and leaves nothing but ash.

Not even when his voice brushed against my ear like a warning wrapped in velvet

“My condolences, Sera.”

I swallowed the scream that tried to claw its way up my throat. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not here. Not now.

“Keep your lies for your own dead,” I said softly, staring at the coffin. “Matteo doesn’t need them where he’s going.”

A pause. Silence thick enough to choke on. Then his voice again calm, cold, cruel.

“And where is that, exactly?”

I turned, finally. Slowly. Face to face with the man I’d dreamed of killing in a hundred different ways. Rivan Blackthorne didn’t look like a monster. He looked like sin carved from shadow and smoke. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. Mouth like a secret. But I knew better. The devil doesn’t wear horns. He wears charm and a suit tailored in blood.

“You’re not welcome here,” I whispered, stepping closer until only a breath stood between us.

“And yet,” he said, that ghost of a smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth,

“Here I am.”

My hand twitched toward the blade under my coat.

“Not yet, Romano,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the coffin. “Even you wouldn’t spill blood on your brother’s grave.”

I hated that he was right. I hated how steady his voice was. How he smelled like rain and danger. I hated that part of me some traitorous, broken part wanted to hear him say my name again.

“Sera.”

*Just like that. Low. Rough. Like a curse and a prayer all in one.The priest’s final words echoed through the church. People began to leave, muttering their sympathies and condolences as if they meant anything.

Rivan didn’t move. Neither did I. We stood in silence, surrounded by the dead. Two heirs. Two enemies. Two loaded guns waiting to go off*.

He leaned in close enough to feel the chill off his breath. “This war doesn’t end here.” I smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “No,” I whispered.

“It begins.”

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