Chapter 6 - THE FUNERAL OF A FALLEN MATRIARCH AND THE BITTER TASTE OF ASHES
The morning of the funeral arrived with a sky the color of a bruised lung,
heavy,
gray,
and weeping a fine,
miserable mist.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dressing room,
adjusting the black silk tie that felt like a noose around my throat.
My mother was gone,
and with her,
the last buffer between my soul and the abyss had vanished.
I heard the soft click of the door,
and Clara stepped inside.
She was dressed in a simple black wool coat,
her hair pulled back tightly,
revealing the sharp,
aristocratic lines of a face that was never meant for servitude.
"The cars are ready,"
she said,
her voice a low vibration in the quiet room.
I turned to look at her,
and for a moment,
the world outside the mansion didn't exist.
"You don't have to go,"
I told her,
my voice rasping.
"Dominic will have eyes everywhere."
"To them,
your presence is a provocation."
Clara walked toward me,
her gaze steady and unafraid.
"I am not a coward,
Bennett."
"She was the only person who saw me as human for ten years."
"I will be there when she is laid to rest,
regardless of who is watching."
I felt a surge of something that wasn't quite pride,
but something much more dangerous—admiration.
"Then you stay close to me,"
I commanded,
reaching out to touch her shoulder.
"Do not leave my side for a second."
We walked down the grand staircase together,
the rhythmic clicking of her heels echoing like a countdown.
The funeral was a sterile,
private affair,
held in the family cemetery at the edge of the estate.
There were no flowers from the other families,
no hollow condolences from the Commission.
Only my men,
standing like stone sentinels in the rain,
their hands never far from their holsters.
As the priest spoke the final rites,
I looked at the mahogany casket and felt nothing but a vast,
hollow emptiness.
Everything I had built,
every life I had taken,
every dollar I had laundered,
couldn't buy one more minute of my mother's breath.
Beside me,
Clara was a statue of grief.
A single tear escaped her veil,
tracking through the pale powder on her cheek.
I reached out and took her hand.
Her fingers were ice cold,
but she didn't pull away.
She gripped my hand with a desperate strength,
her knuckles white.
At that moment,
I realized we were the only two people in the world who truly knew what was being buried today.
The silence was suddenly broken by the crunch of gravel.
I looked up to see a single black sedan parked at the gates of the cemetery.
It didn't move.
It just sat there,
a predatory shadow watching us.
"Marcus,"
I whispered,
not moving my head.
"I see them,
sir,"
my head of security replied into his lapel mic.
"Snipers are locked on."
"Don't fire,"
I ordered.
"Not here."
"Not in front of her."
The service ended,
and the men began the grim work of lowering the casket.
I turned Clara away,
shielding her body with mine as we walked back toward the house.
The sedan at the gate slowly rolled away,
but the message was clear.
They were waiting.
The peace of the funeral was an illusion.
The war was simply pausing to catch its breath.
Back inside the study,
I poured two glasses of neat bourbon.
I handed one to Clara,
who took it with trembling hands.
"What happens now?"
she asked,
the liquid swirling in her glass.
I looked at the velvet box on my desk,
containing the key and the letter.
"Now,"
I said,
"we go to Switzerland."
"We find out what my father took from you."
"And then,"
"I burn the Commission to the ground for thinking they can tell me who lives and dies in my world."
Clara looked at the fire in the hearth,
the orange light dancing in her dark eyes.
"You’re going to start a war for me?"
she asked softly.
I walked over to her,
until only inches separated us.
The scent of her—rain,
expensive soap,
and a hint of something floral—filled my senses.
"I’m starting a war for the truth,"
I said.
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"But if you're the one holding the match,"
"then so be it."
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