Chapter 87: The Funeral of Kings

\# Chapter 87 – The Funeral of Kings

Eve's POV

Death had a particular smell in the rain. Not the sweet, cloying scent of flowers that filled most funeral homes, but something sharper—ozone mixed with earth and the metallic tang of blood that seemed to follow men like Vincent Torrino even into their graves. I stood at the edge of Calvary Cemetery, watching the procession of black umbrellas and darker suits as they gathered around the mahogany casket that held what remained of the former council boss.

Vincent had been eighty-three when someone put two bullets in the back of his head three nights ago. Old enough to die naturally, but in our world, natural death was a luxury that few men earned. He'd built his reputation on violence and maintained his power through fear, but in the end, it had been a young punk with a grudge and a stolen gun who'd taken him down. There was poetry in that, though I doubted anyone else at the funeral would appreciate the irony.

The rain drummed steadily against my umbrella as I watched the mourners. Some faces I recognized—capos and soldiers from the old guard, their wives draped in black designer dresses that cost more than most people made in a year. Others were strangers to me, but their bearing marked them as dangerous men trying to look respectable for a few hours.

I'd known Vincent peripherally for years, back when the council still had some semblance of order and the families maintained their territories with something approaching civility. He'd been one of the few who'd shown me a measure of respect in those early days, when most of the bosses still saw me as nothing more than a pretty face with good connections. Not because he was progressive or enlightened, but because he understood that underestimating people was a quick way to end up dead.

Ironic, considering how his own story had ended.

The priest—a thin man with kind eyes who probably had no idea what kind of sins he was absolving—began the final rites. Latin words that were supposed to provide comfort to the bereaved, though I doubted many of the mourners were concerned with Vincent's eternal soul. They were here for the same reason I was: to be seen, to pay respects, and to read the room.

Funerals in our world were as much about politics as grief. Who attended, who spoke, who sat where—it all meant something. Vincent's death had created another power vacuum, and nature abhored vacuums almost as much as it abhorred weakness.

I spotted familiar faces in the crowd. Angela Rossini, Vincent's daughter, stood at the graveside with tears streaming down her face. Real grief, from the look of it, which made her either a better actress than I'd given her credit for or one of the few people here who'd actually loved the old bastard. Her husband stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Smart man. Funerals were perfect places for settling scores.

Near the back of the gathering, I noticed three men who didn't quite fit. They wore the right clothes and carried themselves with appropriate solemnity, but something about them set my teeth on edge. The way they stood too close together, the way their eyes kept flicking to specific people in the crowd rather than focusing on the ceremony. The way they kept their hands loose at their sides, ready to move quickly if needed.

Professional instincts honed by years of survival began screaming warnings in the back of my mind.

The priest concluded his prayers and the mourners began the traditional procession past the casket. I hung back, watching, waiting. If something was going to happen, it would be now, while people were moving and distracted.

That's when I saw the child.

A boy, maybe ten years old, standing slightly apart from the main group. He was well-dressed in a miniature suit that had probably cost a fortune, his dark hair neatly combed, his face solemn in the way that children's faces become when they're trying to understand adult concepts like death and loss. But it wasn't his presence that made my blood run cold—it was what he was holding.

A ring. Heavy gold, with an ornate setting that I recognized immediately.

Marco Santelli's ring. The one he'd worn on his right hand for as long as I'd known him, the one that bore the seal of his family's authority. I'd seen it up close too many times to be mistaken.

But Marco was supposed to be dead. Had been dead for weeks, according to every piece of intelligence I'd been able to gather. So what was his ring doing on the finger of a child at Vincent Torrino's funeral?

I started moving through the crowd, trying to get closer to the boy without drawing attention to myself. But as I moved, I noticed that the three men who'd set off my alarm bells were moving too, converging on my position with the kind of practiced coordination that spoke of military or professional training.

The first one reached me just as the crowd began to disperse, people heading back to their cars or gathering in small groups to continue conversations that couldn't be finished at graveside. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that was handsome in a generic, forgettable way. The perfect face for someone who didn't want to be remembered.

"Ms. Castellano," he said quietly, falling into step beside me. "Beautiful service, wasn't it?"

I didn't recognize the voice, which was concerning. In my line of work, I made it a point to know everyone who might want me dead. The fact that this man knew my name while remaining a stranger to me suggested either very good intelligence gathering or very recent arrival in the city.

"It was," I replied neutrally, continuing to walk toward the cemetery's parking area. "Vincent would have appreciated the turnout."

"I'm sure he would have. He was a man who understood the importance of respect." The stranger's tone was conversational, but I could feel the tension in his movements. "Tell me, have you given any thought to your own funeral arrangements?"

There it was. The threat, delivered with the same casual tone one might use to discuss the weather. I had to admire the professionalism, even as I began calculating distances and angles.

"I'm more of a cremation person myself," I said. "Less fuss, less expense. More environmentally friendly."

His companion had appeared on my other side—shorter than the first man, but with the compact build of someone who stayed in excellent shape. His eyes were cold and calculating, the eyes of a man who'd killed before and wouldn't hesitate to do it again.

"That's practical," he said. "Though it does make viewing the body more difficult for the mourners."

"True. But then again, if you've lived your life properly, the people who matter will remember you as you were, not as you ended up."

We'd reached the parking area now, a sea of black sedans and SUVs that looked like a convention for funeral directors. My own car was parked near the back, which had seemed like a good idea when I'd arrived—discrete, with multiple exit routes. Now it felt like a trap, too far from the main group of mourners to call for help, too isolated to discourage violence.

The third man was waiting by my car. Younger than the other two, with nervous energy that marked him as either inexperienced or hopped up on stimulants. Probably both, which made him the most dangerous of the three. Experienced killers were predictable in their methods; amateurs were wild cards.

"Nice car," he said as we approached. "Though I have to say, I'm surprised you drove yourself. Most people in your position prefer to have drivers. Bodyguards. Security."

"I've always been independent," I replied, reaching into my purse as if searching for my keys. Instead, my fingers found the grip of the .380 I'd carried to every funeral for the past five years. "Besides, good help is so hard to find these days."

The first man—clearly the leader of their little group—smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.

"That's exactly what we wanted to talk to you about. The help situation. See, we represent some people who think you might benefit from a change of management. New advisors, new protection, new... opportunities."

"And if I'm not interested in new opportunities?"

"Then you'll be interested in avoiding new problems. The kind of problems that tend to follow people who don't adapt to changing circumstances."

I could see other mourners in the distance, still gathered in small groups near the gravesite. Close enough to see us talking, too far away to intervene if things went sideways. Which, judging by the way the three men had positioned themselves, was exactly the plan.

"You know," I said conversationally, "I've been to a lot of funerals over the years. And one thing I've noticed is that the people who end up in the ground usually made the same mistake."

"What's that?" the leader asked.

"They underestimated their opposition."

The .380 came out of my purse smooth and fast, a motion I'd practiced thousands of times in empty warehouses and abandoned lots. The first shot took the leader center mass, the small caliber bullet designed more for surprise than stopping power. He staggered backward, his eyes wide with shock, his hand reaching for the weapon holstered under his jacket.

The second man was already moving, his own gun clearing leather with professional speed. But I'd been expecting that, had been counting on their training to make them predictable. I dropped into a crouch, letting his first shot pass over my head, and put two rounds into his chest before he could adjust his aim.

The young one—the nervous amateur—froze for a crucial half-second, his mind struggling to process the fact that their easy target had just turned into a predator. That half-second cost him his life. My third and fourth shots dropped him beside his companions, his own weapon still only halfway out of its holster.

The entire engagement had lasted maybe ten seconds. Three men, three threats, three problems solved with surgical precision and minimal collateral damage. I'd been in situations like this often enough that my body had moved on autopilot, training and experience taking over while my conscious mind observed with clinical detachment.

Now, as the immediate danger passed, I became aware of the silence that had fallen over the cemetery. The casual conversations near the gravesite had stopped. Every face was turned in my direction, mouths open, eyes wide with shock and something that might have been fear or respect or both.

I stood slowly, keeping the gun visible but pointed downward. The message needed to be clear: I was not prey. I was the hunter. And anyone who forgot that distinction did so at their own peril.

"Gentlemen," I called out, my voice carrying clearly across the cemetery grounds. "Ladies. I apologize for the disturbance. These men seems to have suffered from a case of mistaken identity."

I holstered the weapon and smoothed down my black dress, checking to make sure no blood had splattered on the expensive fabric. Appearances mattered, even—especially—in moments like these.

"As I was saying before we were interrupted," I continued, addressing the crowd of mourners who were still staring at me in stunned silence. "Vincent Torrino was a man who understood respect. Who knew the value of treating people appropriately. It's a lesson that some people, unfortunately, never learn."

I walked past the three bodies without looking down, heading back toward the main group of mourners. Several people stepped aside as I approached, creating a clear path. No one spoke, but I could feel the weight of their attention, the calculations running behind their eyes.

Word of what had just happened would spread through the families within hours. By tomorrow, everyone would know that Eve Castellano had been targeted at Vincent Torrino's funeral and had eliminated the threat with cold efficiency. The story would grow in the telling, as stories always did, but the core message would remain: I was not someone to be underestimated.

But as I rejoined the crowd, my eyes sought out the child I'd spotted earlier. The boy with Marco Santelli's ring. He was still there, standing beside an older woman who might have been his grandmother, still holding that piece of jewelry that shouldn't exist.

When our eyes met across the cemetery, he smiled. Not the innocent smile of a child, but something older and more knowing. Something that made my blood run cold for the second time that day.

He raised his hand—the one wearing Marco's ring—and gave me a small wave. A gesture of acknowledgment. Of greeting. Of challenge.

Then he turned and walked away with the older woman, disappearing into the crowd of mourners like he'd never been there at all.

I stood there for a long moment, processing what I'd seen. Marco Santelli was supposed to be dead, but his ring was on the finger of a child who'd appeared at Vincent Torrino's funeral. Three professional killers had just tried to kidnap me, suggesting that someone with serious resources wanted me alive for questioning. And somewhere in the city, the power structures that had kept an uneasy peace for decades were shifting in ways I didn't fully understand.

The funeral was supposed to be about burying the past. Instead, it felt like I'd just been introduced to the future.

As I walked back to my car, stepping carefully around the three bodies that were already attracting the attention of cemetery security, I tried to make sense of what I'd witnessed. But one thing was clear: the game had changed. The rules I'd been playing by for years no longer applied.

Vincent Torrino's funeral had been meant to honor the dead. Instead, it had become a declaration of war.

And I had the unsettling feeling that I'd just picked a fight with an enemy I didn't even know existed.

The rain continued to fall as I drove away from Calvary Cemetery, washing the blood from the pavement and carrying with it the last remnants of whatever peace the city might have known. Behind me, the mourners were probably already calling their bosses, their associates, their allies. By midnight, every family in the city would know what had happened.

But they wouldn't know about the child. They wouldn't know about the ring. They wouldn't know that somewhere in the shadows, someone was pulling strings with enough skill to make the dead walk among the living.

I had work to do. People to call, favors to collect, information to gather. Because if Marco Santelli wasn't as dead as everyone believed, then everything I thought I knew about the current state of play was wrong.

And in my world, being wrong was just another word for being dead.

The funeral of kings was over. The reign of whatever was coming next had just begun.