Chapter 17

  Bells echo from the chapel, their sound carrying across the street.

  The road outside is nearly empty of people but crowded with parked vehicles — polished black sedans lining both sides. The clearest sign of a man who knew many powerful men.

  “As we gather today, we are all shaken by the sudden loss of a great man in our community, in our city, and in our lives. Thomas Stone will be forever missed — not only by his friends, colleagues, and family, but by every individual who crossed his path.”

  The pastor’s voice moves steadily, confidently.

  The room, however, feels heavy.

  I’m not sure what I expected from a funeral. Tears? Anger? Collapse?

  Instead, I get silence.

  The only whimpers come from women seated near the front — some of Thomas’s former relationships, I assume. The men are different. Hard faces. Straight backs. Eyes dry. As if grief were either illegal… or inconvenient.

  Given what I’ve learned about my father, I suspect it’s the latter.

  Most of these men I haven’t seen in years. Every one of them tied, in some way, to a family of wealth.

  To power.

  Selena stands beside me at the front. Earlier, she told me I was alone now. That whatever family I thought I had left with Thomas.

  I’m still not sure if she meant it as comfort or warning.

  My eyes drift to the photograph beside the casket. It’s a picture of my father in his youth — one I’ve never seen before. He looks almost the same. Untouched. As if time never dared challenge him.

  “Now,” the pastor continues, “could we have a few words from his son, Elijah? Who better to send him off with a proper message?”

  My name lands like weight on my chest.

  For a moment, I don’t move.

  The casket is only a few feet away. My father’s smiling face stares back at me from the frame — younger, lighter, unaware of what would become of him.

  My palms are damp.

  Every man in the room is watching me.

  Not grieving.

  Measuring.

  I stand.

  The walk to the podium feels longer than it is. I try not to drag the moment, but each step feels deliberate, heavy — like I’m walking into something bigger than a speech.

  I clear my throat.

  “Oh… thank you all for coming, especially on such short notice. I’m sure my father would’ve appreciated it.”

  My voice sounds steady. I don’t know how.

  “He held all of you in high regard. And I do too. There isn’t much I could tell you about this man that you don’t already know.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A faint ripple of acknowledgment passes through the room.

  “In fact, I feel underqualified as of late.”

  That earns a few subtle looks.

  “But whatever you knew about him — whatever I didn’t — he was a good father. As a man, I couldn’t begin to measure him. But as my father… he was everything I needed.”

  My throat tightens.

  “I never felt the absence of my mother. Not once. And I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand how he managed that.”

  Silence follows.

  Not the respectful kind.

  The calculating kind.

  A few nods. Tight lips. Someone clears his throat.

  Brook watches me carefully. Selena doesn’t clap — she just studies me, eyes glassy but strong.

  Then the bells ring again, signaling the end.

  Churches have more hiding places than people realize.

  Corners. Pillars. Shadowed pews.

  Perfect for avoiding businessmen in tailored suits who tell you they “hope you stay strong” or “hope you can move forward.”

  What they really mean is:

  We hope the business survives.

  Which unsettles me even more, considering what the business actually is.

  From the back of the church, I watch Brook navigate clusters of dark suits. The longer he stays with a group, the more important they are. His posture shifts depending on who he’s speaking to — steady, diplomatic, controlled.

  Selena, surprisingly, avoids most of them.

  It’s not that they don’t approach her. They do.

  She simply doesn’t entertain them.

  No smiles. No small talk.

  The more I watch her, the more familiar she feels.

  And while I’m watching them—

  I realize someone is watching me.

  “That was a great speech, kid. Didn’t hold anything back. Just like your father.”

  The voice is deep.

  Calm.

  Too calm.

  I turn, expecting to recognize the face from childhood dinners or distant gatherings.

  I don’t.

  An older man stands before me. Gray hair slicked back so neatly it looks deliberate, almost artificial. His eyes are heavy — not tired, just… finished. Like he stopped expecting to be surprised years ago.

  “Forgive me,” I say carefully. “Have we met?”

  He chuckles, just loud enough for nearby suits to glance our way.

  “Oh, we’ve crossed paths. You visited my home many times. We simply never shook hands.”

  He extends one now.

  “Vigo Kravitz.”

  My heart pounds.

  Of all the elite family heads I expected to see here, he was not one of them.

  I take his hand. His grip is firm — controlled, not aggressive.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

  “Come now,” he says lightly. “When death strikes the community, we must all come together. Especially when it is so sudden… and unfortunate.”

  Unfortunate.

  According to Brook, the Kravitz family sits near the top of the suspect list.

  Standing here, shaking his hand, my blood warms.

  “You seem tense, my boy,” he says, eyes scanning me. “Perhaps some air would help. We could speak privately. I could tell you more about the Thomas I knew.”

  Not an invitation.

  A maneuver.

  Still, avoiding him would look worse.

  “Sure,” I say. “How could I refuse?”

  Outside, the air feels cleaner. Less suffocating than the polished grief inside.

  We walk along the church garden path. He speaks casually — trivial things. My father’s dislike of flying. Minor business anecdotes. Stories that reveal nothing.

  He’s circling.

  “Mr. Kravitz,” I say carefully, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  His smile doesn’t shift.

  “We’ve been trying to reach Sebastian. He was the last person to see my father.”

  A pause.

  “He hasn’t returned any calls.”

  Vigo’s eyes sharpen — just slightly.

  “That is concerning,” he says smoothly. “I wasn’t aware Sebastian and Thomas were meeting.”

  The lie is clean.

  Too clean.

  “I saw them together at the bank,” I press.

  A small shrug.

  “Memory fades at my age. Perhaps it is best to ask Sebastian directly.”

  He pivots seamlessly.

  “But business must continue. Brook mentioned operations may slow. That would be… unfortunate.”

  Now he looks directly at me.

  “You are Thomas’s son. Surely you will be taking his seat.”

  There it is.

  Not grief.

  Not sympathy.

  Positioning.

  “I don’t know what’s happening with the business,” I reply evenly. “That’s Brook’s department.”

  “Heavens,” Vigo says softly. “I would assume Thomas intended for you to lead. It is always better to speak with the man who will hold power long-term rather than someone temporarily occupying the chair.”

  No disrespect to Brook.

  Of course.

  This isn’t a conversation.

  It’s recruitment.

  Or assessment.

  “Grief can make a young man feel alone,” he continues. “Family should correct that. You must join us for dinner soon. We will discuss the future properly — together.”

  Family.

  He says it like ownership.

  “I’ll speak with Brook first,” I say. “Family first.”

  His smile deepens slightly.

  That may have been the wrong answer.