Chapter 20 Nicole
Nicole
Deliberov’s funeral features a procession of luxury cars trailing the hearse.
At the cemetery, I bow my head beneath my baseball cap.
I don’t need some unwelcome paparazzo capturing the emotionless look on my face.
Beside me, my mother wipes her eyes with a tissue every time one of the Deliberovs glances our way.
My father hides behind his sunglasses, crossing himself along with the priest as if he’s forgotten his favorite line: “The only god in this world is money.”
Thinking of that brings back the unwelcome memory of yesterday. My fingers itch with the urge to rub my forehead, and the rather unmissable “G” hidden by the visor of the baseball cap.
“G” for Gaetano.
My heart races. I endured the most humiliating hour of my life—and I hate admitting it—but it was also the most vulnerable.
Having to get my naked ass in the car, drive to a secluded parking lot, and call Boyana, of all people, to bring me a change of clothes was nothing short of chaotic.
I’ve always had everything at my fingertips, but this time, I was at someone else’s mercy.
It sucked. Even worse? I had to sneak into my house like a thief in the night, praying I wouldn’t run into my parents so they wouldn’t see the blood on my forehead.
At least Boyana was na?ve enough to take it as “the new trend” and believe the dress tore because of its cheap material.
At the end of the day, Gaetano is unharmed, and I’m right back where I started—living in dread of him appearing and wrecking more chaos in my life.
Oh, and having his mark on my forehead.
‘Or for God. Whichever you prefer to call me.’
The words creep into my mind, a dark whisper, as if he’s here, murmuring them into my ear.
But he’s not. I don’t sense that thick, invasive energy that trails behind him.
Yet, I still flinch in anticipation, a wave of heat rolling down my spine while I scan the crowd dressed in black, searching for him.
I know what I did to him will carry consequences.
After the ceremony, we gather in the ballroom of a luxury hotel downtown.
Tradition calls for a quiet farewell, but the wealthy in this society don’t follow customs even in death.
A famous orchestra plays somber music while the guests drift between tall tables, drinks in hand, exchanging rehearsed words about the deceased.
Clustered around one of the marble tables, Boyana, Misha, Marie, and I discuss the details of the twins’ upcoming birthday party. Marie’s fingers toy with a strand of her straightened hair as she ticks off the schedule. “Guests start arriving after seven. The band’s set to kick off at nine…”
“The DJ will keep things going during the breaks,” Misha finishes.
Boyana’s lips freeze on the rim of her prosecco glass. “Who’s the DJ this year?”
Misha gapes at her. “Not the one from last summer who ditched his booth to make out with you in the pool!”
Boyana winks at me. “One of the best kissers I’ve ever had.”
Marie’s eyes flash, her voice rising. “He ruined our party, Boyana!”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have told him to bring a swimsuit,” I mutter, adjusting my cap.
Marie brushes a speck of dust off her shoulder with a dismissive flick. “Right, because that’s all we needed: him rolling around naked in our pool.”
I laugh under my breath.
“What’s so funny?” She glares at me.
I lift my head. Since when does Marie think she’s allowed to rebuke me? What’s so funny? You and your sister, and your desperate attempts to stay relevant by pouring a truckload of cash into this party. I clench my jaw, swallowing the retort. I have more important tasks at hand.
As if on cue, my mother passes by. “Take that cap off. You look like a hooligan.”
Boyana and the twins tilt their heads. Those curious crows, ready to peck at every word of our exchange! My blood boils. If there’s one thing I hate more than my mother’s constant attempts to manage me, it’s her doing it in front of an audience. Doesn’t she realize how much she humiliates me?
I clench my fists, debating how to shut her down. I can’t tell her the real reason for the baseball cap… but I can give her a good enough excuse to back off. “My hair’s greasy. I didn’t have time to wash it.”
The twins’ eyebrows shoot up to their hairlines. Did I just admit to stealing food from a homeless person, or something?
Fuck them.
My mother frowns, her focus flicking to the Deliberov family, who’ve claimed the central table and are receiving condolences. More specifically, to the young Deliberov. She sees the current situation as the perfect chance to “console” the grieving heir to a business empire.
Well, not this time. I slip into the crowd, seeking some solitude.
I retreat to a quiet corner, waiting for my parents to finish mingling with the elite.
My eyes drift back to the Deliberov family.
Besides the widowed Mrs. Deliberov and their youngest son, the rest of the children are also here.
Mrs. Deliberov’s gaze reminds me of a cold ocean as she accepts condolences.
Silvia, her daughter, married an Arab sheikh and lives in Dubai.
For the occasion, she’s wearing a gown from Elie Saab’s latest collection.
Her husband stands beside her, tall in a tailored black suit.
He appears to be the picture of elegance and loyalty to his wife, if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes constantly wander around the room, seeking anything on long legs and heels.
The tabloids enjoy publishing photos of the sheikh’s alleged mistresses—blondes, brunettes, and even some famous actresses have appeared on the pages.
The other son, Martin, has a lanky build and a hunched posture.
He’s dressed in a classic black suit, but his shirt’s unbuttoned one notch too far, and his tie is crooked.
Rumor has it he’s survived two suicide attempts and has been struggling with a psychiatric diagnosis the family keeps under lock and key.
People say his instability is why his father never trusted him with the business, despite being the older son.
And then there’s Daniel himself, with his slicked-back dark hair and a calculating gaze that assesses the worth of everyone in the room.
Not unlike the sheikh, he can’t keep his attention on the endless condolences.
His rumored lover boy is the only journalist allowed at the funeral.
I bet he’ll be allowed somewhere else tonight, too.
I scan the crowd again. This time, I’m searching for a tall figure with dark hair and tattooed hands. He’s not here.
And the worst part? I’m not sure whether to feel relieved.
* * *
Until now, I believed his presence shook me the most. That the sight of Gaetano, the darkness in his eyes, was the peak of my tension. But waiting for his next appearance… that’s what’s truly unbearable.
Those hours feel more torturous than the days awaiting an execution.
My phone buzzes sometime after dinner.
Daria: anything new??
I sigh, staring at the screen, thumb hovering. I text back, Still breathing. Still no sign of him
A few seconds later, the typing bubble appears. I imagine her pacing her room. Another message follows: I’m worried, Niki
I pause. What good would it do if I admit that I’m not worried? I’m fucking freaking out. Maybe he died from his wound I type.
Daria: should we call the cops??
Me: Yeah, hi, 911? That guy I stabbed in the fields is not texting me back
She doesn’t reply for a while. The typing bubble vanishes. Reappears. Vanishes again.
I type: Let’s talk tomorrow, then toss the phone onto the blanket.
The clock in my room counts down the last moments of the day, each second like hot wax dripping across my skin. I can’t bear to stay here, but I also can’t leave. Because if he shows up, I don’t want any witnesses.
What’s taking him so long?
While I struggle to stay awake, memories of the graveyard flash through my mind.
The freshly dug grave for Mr. Deliberov, the earth raw and gaping.
The polished marble headstone, grand and towering, carved with more money than most people will see in a lifetime.
The fading gleam of the coffin, swallowed by the dirt.
My family is wealthy, but the Deliberovs are powerful. Still, what’s the difference when it comes to death?
It could have been my funeral tonight. If Gaetano had retaliated, I would’ve lost everything.
But for some reason, he let me pass the first trial.
And now, two more remain. I’m bound to face them regardless of my father’s wealth, our family name, and dozens of influential connections.
None of it changes the simple truth: I could be dead in two weeks.
Something flickers across the wall. I jerk upright, my breath stuttering. For a heartbeat, I swear a shadow moved just beyond the edge of my vision! But when I scan the room… Only the curtains stir, lit by the headlights of the cars passing down the street..