The funeral took less time to plan than I had expected. Mere days later, I stood in the graveyard before a black casket with a single red rose clenched in my gloved hand. The perfect image of a grieving fiancée.
It was a private service. Clean and restrained.
Exactly how I imagined Dario would have wanted it. Though it didn't stop the photographers crowding the steps of St.Patrick's Cathedral, shouting my name as if my grief were something owed to them. I kept my head down through it all, holding onto my grandfather's arm as we descended the steps, my expression carefully hollow, my eyes hidden behind my sunglasses.
They followed us to the cemetery, too. But the gates remained close, so they merely waited outside. Onlookers gathering beyond the iron bars, whispering, speculating. I ignored them all. The less the public knew of me, the better.
I hadn't known Dario for long. At least not really. But he had been prepared in the way our men always are, given how dangerous this line of work can be. He had already written a will just a year ago, so the whole thing didn't really take much planning.
I was only keeping to his wishes written in his will. And Dario had been a simple man.
Sadly, it was the man I loved that put the bullet into his head.
When my turn came, I stepped forward and let the white rose slip from my fingers, landing softly atop the casket, stark against the polished back. It was too clean, too final. I lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, my gaze fixed on the polished surface, as though staring hard enough might make the truth bend.
"Life," the priest said gently, his voice carrying through the cold air, "is far shorter than we ever expect it to be. We walk through it believing we have time. Time to love, to forgive, to choose differently. And then, suddenly, we are reminded that time is not promised."
A murmur of wind passed through the trees.
"We are only stewards of the moments we're given," he continued. "And when those moments end, all that remains are the memories we leave behind. So cherish them. Hold them close. For they are what endure."
That was when it happened.
The sensation crawled up my spine without warning. The unmistakable weight of being watched. My breath caught. My fingers tightened in the fabric of my coat as something primal stirred at the back of my mind.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
I already felt him there, beyond the gathered mourners, past the iron gates, standing among the trees like a shadow that had learned patience. Watching me.
"May we honor the dead," the priest said softly, "by remembering them well."
My throat tightened.
"Amen," the priest concluded quietly.
The service dissolved into movement after that. From the murmured condolences, the soft shuffle of shoes against gravel, the dull thud of earth beginning to fall. I stayed still until it was finished. Until the last prayer was spoken. Until there was nothing left to do but leave.
I did not bother looking at the trees.
Not even once.
Because I knew that if I did, I wouldn't stop.
Instead, I turned on my heel and walked back toward where all the cars were parked, heading towards our waiting car. My spine straight, my face carved into something distant and untouchable. And even then, I felt him still. Like a burn between my shoulder blades.
But I refused to give him even the smallest acknowledgment. He did not deserve it.
My grandfather was already seated inside when I slid in right beside him. The door shut with a muted thump, sealing us away from the graveyard, the prayers, from the past I had just buried.
"Go," I told the driver quietly.
And the car rolled forward, slow and deliberate, tires crunching over the gravel as we made our way toward the gates. I allowed myself one breath then, just one, before the world came crashing back in.
When the iron gates opened, that was when the noise exploded.
Cameras flashed in rapid succession, white light slicing through the tinted windows. voices shouting over one another, my name rising above them all like a chant.
"Isolda—over here!"
"Miss Ricci, did you know who killed him?"
"Were you really engaged?"
"Do you feel safe now?"
The car slowed despite itself as bodies pressed closer, photographers crowding the gates, lenses aimed like weapons. I stared straight ahead, my reflection faint in the tinted glass, fragmented by the flashing lights. The sudden frenzy setting my nerves on edge.
Sure, our families were relatively famous for owning some major corporations in the world. But never like this. Not even when my parents had died, the press hadn't swarmed so viciously, so...deliberately. Something tells me this wasn't curiosity.
Someone had tipped them off. Someone had arranged this spectacle.
"What the hell is going on?" my grandfather demanded, his voice low, cutting through the noise.
The driver tightened his grip on the wheel. "I can't get through them," he said evenly. "Not unless I'm willing to run them over."
Silence settled over the car, heavy and charged. I could feel my grandfather seriously considering running them over, calculating outcomes the way he always did. Years ago, this would've ended differently. Cameras wouldn't have mattered, and so were witnesses.
But times had changed.
Now, all it took was a phone at the right angle to dismantle empires.
"What about the others?" I asked, my voice low, controlled with effort.
The driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, his grip tightening on the wheel. "The cars ahead had left," he said evenly. "But the ones behind us are stuck as well."
My stomach sank.
"They're not here for coverage," he continued. "Seems like they only want one thing, ma'am."
His gaze met mine in the mirror, brief and apologetic.
My grandfather leaned forward despite the pain, his voice cutting through the car like a blade. "Then you will find a way out," he said. "But you will not run anyone down. Not today."
The driver exhaled once, steadying himself. "Understood."
The engine growled in response, the car starting to edge forward.
At first, it was just inches, enough for the driver to test the crowd. But their bodies pressed closer instead of parting. The cameras stayed raised, but the questions had died down. No one even called my name.
That was when my grandfather's hand tightened around the head of his cane.
"These aren't journalists," he said quietly.
The driver didn't even bother to ask for clarification. He simply pressed on the accelerator.
The engine growled, the car forcing its way through the narrow road. People scattered at last, but not all of them. Some moved too smoothly, peeling off to the sides as if they had rehearsed it.
A sharp crack split the air. The glass window burst right beside my head.
I ducked instinctively as the rear window spiderwebbed. If it weren't for the bulletproof windows, the bullet would've ran straight through my head. The driver swore, wrenching the wheel as the car surged forward onto the open road.
"Get us out of here!" my grandfather barked.
But we didn't get far.
A black sedan slid behind us, close enough that I could see the driver's eyes in the mirror, cold and focused. Another car pulled up on our left. Then motorcycles, engines screaming, appearing out of nowhere like they had risen from the asphalt itself.
Another shot.
The car jolted violently, the sound of rubber tearing deafening in the enclosed space. The steering wheel shuddered in the driver's hands. They knew where to shoot.
"Fuck—" he started.
The car swerved, the world tilting as the tires screamed and we fishtailed across the road. My body slammed into the door, my other hand trying to reach for my grandfather. My shoulders exploded with pain as the seatbelt cut into my chest, and I tasted blood.
Someone was shouting, maybe me.
Then the impact came.
Metal shrieking against metal as we clipped the barrier, the force spinning us sideways. The second collision hit harder, slamming into us with bone-rattling finality.
Everything went white.