The first dinner without her was a quiet, terrible thing.
The grand dining table felt too big. Empty. Six brothers sat around it, pushing food around their plates.
The only sound was the tick of the grandfather clock and the sniffles from little Enzo.
Juliet, swaddled in a soft blanket, slept in a bassinet at the head of the table, right next to Elijah's chair. Her presence was a tiny, sleeping anchor in a sea of grief.
Enzo, his face blotchy and sad, stared at the perfectly cut pieces of chicken on his plate. The maid had made them just how he liked. He didn't eat a single one.
"I don't want it," he whispered, his voice thick with tears. "Mommy cuts it better."
Elijah, sitting at the head of the table, looked like he'd been carved from stone. "Eat it, Enzo," he said, his voice low and tired.
"No!" Enzo's bottom lip trembled, a fat tear rolling down his cheek. "Where is she? When is she coming back?"
The other brothers froze. Riven looked down at his plate. Leo adjusted his glasses, searching for a logical answer that didn't exist. Julian just scowled, the anger a shield for his own hurt.
From her bassinet in the corner, baby Juliet cooed, oblivious to the heartbreak she'd caused.
Elijah put his fork down. The clatter made everyone jump. He stood and walked over to Enzo, kneeling so they were eye-level. The great Don bought low by a seven-year-old's broken heart.
"She's not coming back, Enzo," Elijah said, his voice rough but not unkind. It was the truth, plain and simple. Their world didn't have room for pretty lies. "She's gone. It's just us now. So you need to eat. Understood?"
Enzo's face crumpled. The truth was a physical blow. But he nodded, a single tear splashing onto his uneaten chicken.
The first lesson of the Fernandez family had been delivered: survival meant accepting harsh realities.
THE NEXT DAY
The sky was the color of sorrow.
They stood in a black-clad line before the elegant family mausoleum. Isabella Joanne Fernandez's name was now carved in stone.
Her smile was enchanting, a beacon of joy forever captured on her grave. Framed by a cascade of beautiful, wavy auburn hair, her striking hazel eyes seemed to hold a secret laugh, their color shifting like sunlight through leaves.
Juliet, swaddled in black lace, was held tightly in Elijah's arms. The priest's words floated over the crowd, meaningless and dull.
Suddenly, a wave of strong perfume announced Tia Rosa, their mother's older sister. She was a whirlwind of loud sobs and even louder jewelry.
"Mis pobres niños! My poor boys!" she cried, pulling a stiff Riven into a hug. She moved down the line, squeezing shoulders and kissing heads.
She stopped in front of Elijah, her arms open wide. "Oh, Elijah! You carry such a heavy burden! Come to Tia Rosa!"
Elijah didn't move. He was a fortress. He took a sharp step back, holding Juliet like a shield. Tia Rosa's face crumpled into genuine, slightly offended, hurt.
"So cold, mijo," she sniffled, fanning her face. "This family... all stone and no heart!"
Just then, Juliet began to fuss. Her cry was sharp and sudden.
"Oh, the poor angel!" Tia Rosa clucked, her drama forgotten. "She is hot and unhappy in all this lace! Let me take her to the car. I have a cooler outfit and a fresh diaper. A little air conditioning, yes? I will be quick."
Elijah hesitated. He didn't trust anyone. But Juliet was crying, her face turning red. He gave a single, sharp nod.
Tia Rosa took the baby, cooing to her, and began walking briskly toward the line of black town town cars parked along the cemetery road.
Elijah's eyes never left them. Viktor, his head of security, took a step to follow, but Elijah held up a hand. He was watching.
It happened in a blur.
A man in a black suit—one Elijah didn't recognize—broke from the crowd of mourners. He moved with purpose, not toward Tia Rosa, but toward a nondescript sedan parked behind the family's cars.
As Tia Rosa fumbled with the car door, juggling Juliet, the man changed course. In two long strides, he was on her.
He didn't grab her. He grabbed Juliet.
"Ay! Ladrón! Demonio!" Tia Rosa shrieked, her voice piercing the solemn air. "Give me back that baby!"
The man yanked the baby bundle from her arms. Juliet's crying turned into a scream of terror.
Time seemed to freeze.
Elijah didn't shout. He didn't run. He moved.
In one fluid motion, his hand went inside his suit jacket. The sleek, black pistol was in his hand before anyone else had even processed the scream.
But he couldn't get a clean shot. Tia Rosa was blocking his line of fire.
The kidnapper turned to run, clutching the screaming baby to his chest.
BANG.
The shot didn't come from Elijah. It came from Riven. A warning shot that hit the dirt at the man's feet.
The man flinched, stumbling.
And that's when Tia Rosa snapped.
This was not just an attack. This was a personal insult. She had been put in charge of this baby, and this man had dared to question her competence.
She spotted a groundskeeper's broom leaning against a nearby headstone. With a battle cry that would make her ancestors proud, she snatched it up.
"You think you steal from mi familia?!" she roared, and with the strength of a thousand dramatic aunts, she swung the broom like a baseball bat.
THWACK!
The straw end connected squarely with the back of the kidnapper's head. He stumbled forward, dazed, his grip on Juliet loosening.
THWACK! "That is for my niece!" she yelled, swinging again.
THWACK! "That is for my new shoes!" THWACK! "And that is for ruining my little sister 's funeral!"
The man, more confused and bruised than actually injured, was utterly overwhelmed by the whirlwind of fury and flying straw.
Panicked, and with Elijah now bearing down on him, gun drawn, he made a choice.
He shoved the entire bundle—baby and all—right back into Tia Rosa's arms and sprinted for his car, clutching his throbbing head.
However ,his getaway car's brake lights vanished as it sped off, leaving a cloud of dust and gravel in its wake.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He skidded to a halt, his eyes wide with pure terror. He was stranded. Alone. In a cemetery full of armed mafia members and a deranged woman with a broom.
"WAIT! ROBERT!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. He took a few hopeless steps after the disappearing car. "DON'T YOU LEAVE ME HERE, YOU SON OF A—"
WHACK!
Tia Rosa's broom connected solidly with the back of his head, cutting off his curse and sending his hat flying.
"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?" she shrieked, swinging again. "YOU HAVE NOT APOLOGIZED FOR YOUR RUDENESS!"
The man stumbled, his arms flailing. He looked from the furious aunt to the cold, calculating gaze of Elijah Fernandez, who was now slowly, deliberately, walking toward him. The Don's expression promised a fate far worse than a whacking with a broom.
The getaway car, "Robert," didn't even slow down. It turned a corner at the end of the long cemetery road and disappeared from sight, a final, silent betrayal.
The man's shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him. He was a dead man walking. He slowly raised his hands in surrender, casting one last, longing look at the empty road where his escape had vanished.
Viktor and two other bodyguards descended on him, grabbing his arms roughly
Elijah didn't even look at the captured man. His eyes were only for his sister. He took her back, holding her tightly against his pounding heart. He did a quick, frantic check. She was okay. Terrified, but okay.
He finally turned his head, his gaze icy as it landed on the world 's worst kidnapper.
"Take him to the quiet room," Elijah said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, yet it carried across the entire graveyard. "Find out who he works for."
The quiet room, everyone knew, was a place you didn't come back from.
He then turned to look at Tia Rosa. Her fancy hat was crooked, her hair was a mess, and she was covered in a fine layer of grave dust. She was patting her hair back into place, muttering in Spanish about "disrespectful little rats."
For the first time that day, something like respect flickered in Elijah's cold eyes.
"Thank you, Tia," he said, his voice rough.
Tia Rosa sniffed, adjusting her bustier. "Someone had to handle it. You boys were just standing there."
The funeral was over. The message was clear: you could try to take a Fernandez. But you'd have to get through the entire family first. And that included the aunts.