Chapter Two
Serena
Thirteen hours earlier
The sky hangs low and oppressive, grey and swollen as if even the clouds are mourning.
Rain falls in thin, icy streams, needling against my skin and sliding over my cheeks, conveniently disguising the swelling beneath my eyes.
My eyelids burn, raw, tender from a night spent crying into my pillow until sleep finally dragged me under.
I had hoped the ache would dull by morning.
It didn’t. It settled deeper instead, a constant, relentless throb beneath my ribs.
I cried because the man who raised me for twenty-four years is dead.
I cried because the man I love put a bullet in him.
And I cried because my mother, the woman who should have been here, holding me together, locked herself inside our London house and disappeared from the world.
No calls. No messages. Not even a hollow question about whether I’m still breathing.
When Lorenzo pulled the trigger, something inside me shattered beyond repair.
I remember the sound first; deafening, final.
I remember throwing myself at him, my fists against his chest, screaming until my throat tore itself raw.
I remember the smell of gunpowder and blood, the way my father’s body hit the floor.
And then there’s nothing. A blank space.
Darkness swallowing the edges of my mind.
I woke up hours later in my own bed. Alone.
Clean. The sheets were fresh, the air scented faintly of soap.
It was as if someone had erased the scene, as if blood and bone fragments could be rinsed away with warm water and careful hands.
For a few disorienting seconds, I almost believed it had been a nightmare.
Then the phone rang.
“Your father passed in a car accident. We’re so sorry.” The voice was polished, practiced, soaked in artificial sympathy. As if I hadn’t watched his body collapse. As if I hadn’t felt the spray of his blood against my skin. As if I hadn’t seen the back of his skull open under the force of a bullet.
The news channels followed within the hour.
Breaking headlines. National mourning. A tragic loss.
The Attorney General and the Chief of the FBI, both killed in a devastating car crash.
A car crash. So tidy. So clean. Lorenzo and his team had rewritten reality with terrifying efficiency.
They buried the truth beneath twisted metal and fabricated reports.
And I found myself wondering; if I stood in the middle of the street and screamed what really happened, would anyone believe me?
Or would they look at me the way they look at grieving daughters, fragile, hysterical, unstable?
Whatever Lorenzo discovered on that phone sealed my father’s fate. I saw it in his eyes before he ever lifted the gun. Something cold. Inevitable.
He’s called me thirty times since that night.
Thirty times I let it ring. On the thirty-first, I answered only to hurl the phone against the wall, mirroring the violence he’d shown.
The device shattered on impact, plastic and glass scattering across the floor.
I half expected the memory of the gunshot to shatter with it. It didn’t.
The dark glasses perched on my nose aren’t shielding me from the sun. There is no sun. They hide the evidence, my swollen eyes, the cracks in my composure, the exhaustion carved into my face. They are the only barrier between me and a world that expects a dignified, grieving daughter.
John’s funeral was two days ago. I barely remember it, only the blur of black clothing and murmured condolences. Today is my father’s turn.
“Do you want some water?” Sienna asks quietly at my side.
She hasn’t left me since the news broke. She doesn’t mention what truly happened, but her silence is heavy with it. I see it in the way her gaze hardens whenever Lorenzo appears. In the way it sharpens further when Andres and Lev step beside him.
Bold of them to attend the funeral of the man they executed.
Bolder still to stand close enough to touch me, as if they didn’t fracture my entire world with a single pull of a trigger.
“I’m okay. Thank you.” The lie scrapes its way out of my throat, brittle and unconvincing. I am not okay. I am barely standing. But I don’t have the strength to fall apart in front of cameras, politicians, strangers who came to mourn a man they admired but never truly knew.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!” Kylie’s voice cuts through the steady drum of rain as she rushes toward me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders before I can brace myself.
Her perfume is soft, familiar. Comforting.
“I tried calling Clara, but she’s not answering,” she adds, pulling back just enough for me to see the crease of worry between her brows.
I offer a small, tired smile. Kylie always glows, even in black, even in grief. There’s something warm about her that refuses to dim.
“You know, Serena. . .” she says gently, her fingers tightening around my arms as if she can anchor me in place. “We cry because we lose someone we love. But he’s somewhere better now.”
Somewhere better.
“He’s in a place with no pain. Only peace. He’ll always be with you. In here.” She presses her hand lightly over my heart. “He’s not really gone.”
I swallow hard, forcing down the sharp knot rising in my throat. I want to believe her. I want to imagine my father bathed in light instead of lying in a coffin sealed shut because there wasn’t enough left of him to show.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She hugs me again, tighter this time. Sienna steps forward and wraps her arms around both of us, forming a fragile shield against the storm and the world. For a moment, I let myself lean into them. For a moment, I almost let go.
But I pull back before my knees give out.
Everything around me is black. Black suits. Black dresses. Black umbrellas trembling under the relentless downpour. The sky itself is an endless sheet of charcoal.
I’m dressed for the part too. A long black dress clings to my body. Black heels sink slightly into the wet grass. Oversized sunglasses hide my eyes. There is nothing on me that isn’t dark.
I am tired of living in shadows.
The priest’s voice rises above the rain, solemn and rehearsed.
“We gather today to lay to rest Thomas Beaumont, a man of strength, conviction, and unwavering dedication. As Attorney General, he served his country with honor, always seeking justice, always standing firm in what he believed was right.”
Each word lands like a stone.
“We thank God for the years he lived among us, for his work, his service, and the legacy he leaves behind. Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in God’s embrace now and forever. Amen.”
Amen.
The final word echoes in my head like a door slamming shut.
Silence follows, thick and suffocating. The rain softens for a second, as if even the sky is holding its breath.
His coffin sits a few feet away from me. White. Closed. Buried beneath layers of pristine flowers arranged carefully enough to crush any trace of truth beneath their petals. The lid remains sealed; not out of respect, but out of necessity.
There was nothing left to see.
I can feel it before anyone says it. The subtle shift in the crowd. The expectant glances. The quiet clearing of throats.
They’re waiting for me.
Waiting for the grieving daughter to step forward. To speak about love. About pride. About loss.
What am I supposed to say?
That he was never home? That power always came first? That my mother cried alone in bedrooms bigger than most apartments while he stood beside other women at charity galas?
Should I tell them how he betrayed her over and over again, how he built an empire outside these walls while our family rotted quietly inside them?
Or should I tell them the real truth?
That he begged.
That when Lorenzo raised the gun, my father, the Attorney General, the man of unwavering conviction, fell to his knees. That his voice shook. That his last words were desperate and small.
I swallow hard, the movement painful, as if my throat has been scraped raw from the inside. It feels bruised, swollen with everything I haven’t allowed myself to say. For a second, I consider stepping back. Letting someone else speak. Letting silence swallow this moment whole.
But I step forward anyway.
“Thank you. . . everyone. . . for coming.”
Each word drags through my chest like broken glass. My voice sounds distant to my own ears, fragile and unfamiliar.
And then I look at him.
Lorenzo stands a few feet away, dressed in black like the rest of them, but he doesn’t blend into the crowd. He never does. He’s watching me without blinking, without remorse, as if he’s studying the damage he caused. As if he’s searching my face for something he already shattered.
How dare he look at me like that.
“My father would be. . . happy,” I continue, forcing the words past the tightness in my lungs, “with the number of people who came to see him. For the last time.”
The last time.
I lift my hand and remove my sunglasses.
The tears fall instantly. No warning. No control. They stream down my cheeks, hot and humiliating. A murmur ripples through the crowd; a collective wave of sympathy for the grieving daughter who lost her father in a tragic car accident.
If only they knew.
Across from me, Lorenzo’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens. His shoulders square. Every line of his body sharpens, attention narrowing until it feels like I am the only person standing in this cemetery.
“He was a man who served his country with pride and honor,” I say. A careful half-truth. “He was a husband who cared and loved his wife.”
The lie tastes bitter. A husband who loved his wife so deeply she couldn’t even bring herself to attend his funeral.