32. Alexander
Chapter 32
Alexander
T he moment I exit the limousine, I button up my black suit jacket and head inside the church like a man on a mission. Chloe and Giovanni follow close behind.
My brother is travelling in the other car with Lina and the nurse, and I know I should wait outside so we can enter together, but I need a moment to compose myself.
The drive here was quiet, but when my foot began to bounce uncontrollably as we neared our destination—the only sign of the inner turmoil I was experiencing—Chloe placed her hand on my leg, grounding me for a moment.
Common sense told me to leave her and Giovanni at home today, but I knew that wasn’t a possibility. If I had any chance of getting through this service, I’d need them both by my side.
I’ve been silently dreading this day, completely burdened by the relationship—or the lack of one—I had with my father in the later years. The more he tried to pull me into the fold, the harder I pushed back.
I now regret keeping my distance for so long. He may not have led the kind of life I wanted or agreed with, but that man loved me, that I am sure of .
The priest is waiting for us by the door when we enter. “Alessandro,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Father,” I reply. “This is my partner, Chloe, and my son, Giovanni.”
“It’s nice to meet you both. I’m sorry for your loss.”
His condolences only seem to exacerbate my guilt. Only three of the six people attending today knew Papa intimately. I know I’m not giving my father the send-off he would’ve liked, but my family’s safety is my priority. I have to put them first.
“My brother, Dante, should be arriving any minute,” I say, cutting off further conversation.
“Okay. Take a seat,” the priest says, gesturing to the pews ahead. “We will get started once he’s here.”
“Thank you.”
I’ve already informed him it’s going to be a small, intimate service.
Given the kind of life my father lived, I didn’t disclose any more than that. I didn’t see any need to elaborate further or risk the priest denying him a church service. Lord knows that man needs all the hope and prayers he can get if he has any chance of making it to the pearly gates, but I fear his redemption is out of our grasp.
As I pass, I dip my finger into the holy water, make the sign of the cross, and bow slightly in front of the altar. Although I no longer live the Catholic lifestyle I was raised in, I still carry my faith.
My mother made Dante and I attend church every Sunday as boys. We both stopped going after she passed, but I have fond memories of those happier times when I was blissfully unaware of the darkness that shrouded my father or of the man he truly was.
My eyes move to the coffin that sits to the left of the altar, and that sickly feeling in my gut intensifies. I can’t seem to bring myself to imagine Papa lying peacefully inside in the black three-piece suit I picked out for him to be buried in.
I pause at the foot of the heavy, dark mahogany box containing his bullet-riddled remains. Its surface is polished to a deep, almost sinister sheen. The brass handles gleam, and intricate, gilded patterns line the edges, sharp and deliberate, much like the man it holds. The lid is adorned with a simple yet elegant gold cross, symbolising holiness, which almost seems laughable considering the life he led.
Although I’ll be heading back to Griffith in the morning—alone—for the private burial, it was imperative to have his coffin transported here for the service today. Dante needs to say a proper goodbye to our father since he’s not well enough to travel with me tomorrow.
My brother has yet to show any external signs of being affected by the incident, but I’m afraid, like me, it will hit him when he least expects it.
Images of that day flash through my mind as I stand there. My father’s body slumped over at the head of the table where he sat, enjoying his traditional Christmas lunch, eating and drinking with my brother and his men moments before the bloodbath ensued.
Christ, the blood.
The sight and smell still haunt me. It stained the marble pavers with dark, sticky rivers, like the roots of a tree branching out. The once pristine white tablecloth was soiled with splatters and pools of red—it was everywhere—as the numerous victims bled out from their wounds. Even the once crystal-clear pool was a sickening crimson colour.
My breath comes in shallow bursts as my chest tightens, just like it did that day when realisation set in … he was gone, wiped off the face of the earth. I’d never get to see him ag ain or tell him despite all of our ups and downs, I did, in fact, love him.
My brother had been transported to the hospital before I arrived at my father’s estate, and when I asked the officers present about his condition, my voice came out raw, desperate, clinging to some hope that I hadn’t lost him as well. But they showed no humanity. The only response I got was a shrug.
A fucking shrug.
I even heard one of the motherfuckers in the background chuckle.
It was a strange moment, one where a surge of anger suddenly overtook my grief. I wanted to scream, to throw them off his property … off what now felt like sacred ground, but I knew I couldn’t.
They never saw the father who raised me, the man who was everything to our family. The person I once idolised as a boy and hoped to emulate when I was older. They didn’t see the good he often did. They only saw the criminal, the man who lived on the wrong side of the law.
To them, he was just another body, just another case. A statistic. A fucking inconvenience .
I stood back and observed as they went through the motions, snapping photos like they were at a car wreck, documenting things as if taking inventory in a warehouse. There was no urgency, no feeling, just the hum of routine, utterly detached from what was now my reality.
It was hard to watch them desecrate his memory with every click of their cameras, every impersonal step they took through the place that had once been his kingdom.
The hardest part to grasp was that they left him there—right where he took his last breath—baking in the relentless, unforgiving Australian summer sun for hours.
It was all so undignified for a man who once held so much power. I found it cold and sterile; it felt like a slap to the face. My father was like a god in his world, someone who deserved respect, but to those men, he was the scum of the earth. Another meaningless life erased.
They treated me no differently—with zero empathy and compassion—the offspring of the devil who’d gotten his just desserts.
I clear my throat, trying to push the tightness in my chest down, but it won’t budge. I feel Chloe’s delicate hand slip into mine and hold tight. That move nearly shatters me.
I’ve been struggling to keep it together since I got the call on Christmas Day. That day, I experienced a foreign kind of happiness, but it was short-lived, as it eventually morphed into my worst fucking nightmare.
I’ve forced myself to stay composed, to stay strong and be the rock everyone around me needed. I’m unsure how much longer I can keep the dam from breaking.
I managed to hold it together during the service, and I think that was primarily because it felt impersonal. There were no eulogies, slideshows, or music beyond a few solemn church hymns.
I’ve chosen two songs to be played tomorrow when Papa’s coffin is lowered into the ground. “My Way” by Frank Sinatra—he always had a soft spot for Ol’ Blue Eyes, so it feels fitting—and “Time to Say Goodbye” by Andrea Bocelli, sung in Italian.
I have fond memories of Papa relaxing in his recliner in the evenings, listening to Frank Sinatra vinyls on his old-school record player, and sipping a glass of amaro.
The second song I remember hearing blasted through the house the morning of my mother’s funeral. I came down from my room and found my father holding an image of Mamma in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other as he wept. It was the first and last time I ever saw him cry. But like the unshakable Mafia don, who I later learned he was, he kept his composure in front of the congregation at her service, never letting anyone see the cracks in the facade.
After we thank the priest and turn to leave, Dante reaches for the cuff of my jacket from his wheelchair, tugging slightly. “Do you mind if I have a moment alone with Papa?”
“Of course,” I reply, my voice steady despite the heavy and unrelenting weight on my chest. I wait until everyone else exits the church, then push his chair toward the coffin.
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
“No.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say quietly as I turn to leave.
As I make my way down the aisle, I hear a strangled sob tear from my brother’s throat. I pause, caught in the ache of it, torn between wanting to rush back to him and knowing I can’t. He needs this—needs to grieve in his own way. I’ll have my moment with our father tomorrow.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you … that I survived and you didn’t, Papa,” he chokes out, and the words hit me like a physical blow.
Tears burn at the back of my eyes. I worried that he might experience some survivor guilt, being the only one to make it through, and now I know for sure.
If I could choose who survived between the two of them, I’d pick my brother without hesitation. Yes, he’s done unspeakable things, but to me, he was always just a product of his environment. My father, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was getting into when he took on the mantle of don .
Dante has spent his whole life trying to earn the kind of attention I got freely from our father. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why he stuck around after I left, that, in some strange way, he was still hoping to gain his approval.
I carry my suitcase down the stairs and set it by the front door before heading into the kitchen to say goodbye.
I’ll be gone for the rest of the week. The burial is later today. Tomorrow, I have an appointment with the family lawyer for the reading of the will. My father’s official memorial is the day after. Chloe and Lina will look after Giovanni in my absence.
I hate leaving them behind, but it’s safer for them here. For all I know, I could be walking straight into an ambush, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Hopefully, once the formalities are done, I can close this chapter for good, leave all of this behind—including my hometown of Griffith—and finally move forward.
When I enter, Lina and Carmella are sitting at the breakfast bar, going through the photos Carmella took in Italy. She returned last night from her holiday. Giovanni is at the far end, tucking into a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
He’s living his best life here in this house, getting spoiled rotten by all the women, but I love that for him. I’ve yet to hear anything from Sophia.
“Where’s Chloe?” I ask.
“She said she was going upstairs to look for you,” Lina answers.
That’s strange. I didn’t see her when I was up there.
I’m not going to lie, a tiny bit of panic rises inside me as I head back the way I came, only to see her descending the stairs. I feel an instant relief. I think we’re past the running away stage … well, I hope we are.
As I take her in, I first notice that she has changed from casual clothes to a black pantsuit.
“Where are you off to?” I ask, a mix of confusion and irritation tightening my chest. I don’t like the idea of her leaving the house without me.
“With you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, bella .”
As much as I’d love her company, there’s no way I’m taking any chances with her. I have no idea what awaits me in Griffith.
“I’m coming, Alexander,” she snaps, her voice firm and determined.
“No, you’re not!” I reply, the words sharper than I intended.
“I either fly with you, or I’ll make my own arrangements. I know where the burial is being held; I saw the paperwork you left on the bedside table.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stifle the frustration building inside me. She’s a hell of a lot safer with me there keeping an eye on her than making her way on her own, but I don’t feel comfortable with this.
The biggest dilemma I face is that she’s as stubborn as they come. I know damn well she’ll do exactly what she threatens, whether I like it or not.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs, stopping in front of me. Her arms slide around my waist as she tilts her head back to make eye contact. “I’m not letting you face this alone, Alexander.”
I love her for saying that, but I still don’t like the idea of her coming along. “Chloe?—”
“I’m coming … you can’t stop me. ”
I could lock her away in her room, but I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make her upset with me again.
“Please don’t fight me on this. You are safer here.”
“I’ll be safer with you.”
“ Amore mio ,” I whisper.
“Don’t …” Her voice wavers, but her grip tightens, as if she’s afraid I’ll slip away. “I saw how hard you tried to keep it together yesterday. Please, let me be there for you today.”
I turn my face, fighting the burning knot in my throat, but it’s no use. “I’d rather do this alone.”
She tilts my chin gently, making sure I meet her eyes. “Alex, you don’t have to be strong with me. You lost your father. It’s okay to grieve. Let me help you through this.”
Her words cut through me, making something deep inside me give way. It’s been so long since anyone’s cared enough to carry some of this weight for me.
I clear my throat as I pull her face into my chest in an attempt to hide the tears that are now blurring my vision.
“Alright,” I find myself saying. I only hope I don’t live to regret this. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her as well.
My stomach tightens as the gates to my father’s estate creak open, and the car slowly makes its way down the long, winding driveway toward the house. I promised myself that after the murders, I’d never set foot here again, yet here I am.
Dante asked me to grab a few things of his while I was in Griffith, including emptying out my father’s safe. After everything that happened, I don’t feel good about him returning here, so once the will is read, I’m hoping I can talk him into selling the place.
He can always buy something else if he still wants to continue living in Griffith after he recovers. There’s too much pain tied to this house, too many memories that will haunt him if he stays.
The burial was yesterday, and it went smoothly. I did have some extra security in place to protect Chloe, just in case.
Surprisingly, I remained strong until the final song ended. The flashbacks got to me, but not the dark, painful memories I expected. Instead, they were the happy moments from my life before everything changed.
I saw my father swinging me around in his arms when I was a little kid, our fishing trips to the lake, him patiently teaching me how to ride a bike, our family vacations to Italy, and the time I helped him build a treehouse on the property for Dante and me. Things I’d forgotten, stuff that was buried underneath the horrors that came later.
Chloe held my hand the entire time, but when I finally let my guard down and gave myself a moment, she wrapped me in her arms and just held me.
I keep my gaze fixed ahead as we near the grand house where I spent my childhood. Thankfully, the pool is in the rear, so I don’t have to see it from here, but even so, I can’t bring myself to look in that direction.
As we step inside, an unsettling silence hangs in the air, the house feeling oddly still and lifeless.
“You okay?” Chloe asks, her voice soft as I hesitate in the foyer, struggling to summon the strength to move forward.
“Yeah,” I lie, my eyes scanning the room. “Your mum stayed in one of the bedrooms on the ground floor,” I say, gesturing to my right. “At the end of that corridor. You’re welcome to grab anything she left behind or just … look around.”
“Alright. ”
I hug her briefly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “I’m grateful you’re here with me,” I admit. I thought I could handle this alone, but I was wrong. “I’ll need about an hour or so, then we can head back to the hotel.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll come find you once I’m done.”
I lean forward in my seat, feeling my blood pressure spike. “What do you mean he left everything to me? What about Dante?”
“He left your brother some money,” the lawyer replies, his tone measured.
“How much?” I snap, my voice sharp.
“Two million.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I grind out, my anger flaring. “Two million dollars? My father was a billionaire. Dante’s been doing his bidding for years, almost lost his life because of it, and this is the thanks he gets?”
“They were your father’s wishes, so you should respect them.”
“Fuck that. I want my brother to get half.” I don’t need the money; I’ve amassed my own fortune over the years.
“If that’s what you want, Alessandro, I can arrange it once everything has gone through probate.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” I say, standing. “But Dante can never find out about this.”
I give him a cold look, one that makes it clear I’m not playing games. I might not be as ruthless as my father was, but I’m not fucking around. This news would destroy my brother.
I extend my hand to him, signalling that this conversation is over .
After I show him to the door, I go in search of Chloe, but she’s nowhere to be found, not in her mother’s old room or the kitchen.
“Chloe,” I call out, a thread of panic creeping into my voice. “Chloe?” I move through the house, my steps growing faster as I check each room. When I don’t find her on the main level, I head upstairs, taking them two at a time as my unease deepens.
Still nothing.
“Chloe!” I call out, my voice rising as I break into a jog, leaping down the stairs, multiple threads at a time, as my heart pounds harder with each step.
I rush out the front door, scanning the yard, but there’s no sign of her. I turn and hurry around the side of the house, freezing the second she comes into view.
She’s beside the pool, on her hands and knees, scrubbing away at the dried blood. The sight hits me like a punch to the gut. My stomach churns, and that sick feeling only deepens as I watch her.
I didn’t want to come out here, but there is no way I’m going to let her continue.
“Chloe,” I growl, forcing myself to keep moving as I cross the lawn with long, purposeful strides. “What are you doing?”
“I …” She glances up at me, and that’s when I notice the tears streaming down her face.
“ Amore mio. ”
I stalk toward her, and the moment she is in reach, I lean down and tug her to her feet, wrapping her tightly in my arms.
“I didn’t want you to have to deal with this.” Her voice sounds fragile as it trembles against my chest.
I cup either side of her face and tilt her head back until our eyes meet. “I would’ve paid someone else to do it, bella . ”
Her eyes squeeze shut, and a few more tears spill down her cheeks. My heart aches as I lean in, pressing soft kisses to her eyelids.
“I found a box of cards in my mum’s room,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with sadness. “One for every Christmas and birthday she missed.”
“Although she eventually found a life here, I can only imagine how hard it must’ve been for her to miss those special moments with you.”
“There were ones addressed to my father as well.”
“You understand why she couldn’t send them, right?” She nods in reply. “My father never would’ve allowed it.”
“I know … it’s just … we missed out on so much.”
“She’s back in your life now. Don’t waste time with regrets, life is too short, Tesoro . Trust me, I know. You’ll make plenty of memories moving forward. Everything that’s coming will outshine what’s gone.”
“I hope so,” she says, her voice soft, but there’s a quiet strength in it too.
“ Ti amo ,” I say, placing my lips against her forehead.
“ Anch’io ti amo .”
I pull her face back into my chest, releasing a long, steady breath, letting go of all the bullshit and tension that’s been building up inside me.
This woman loves me, and that’s all I’ll ever need. She’s the one constant in a world that often feels like it’s spinning out of control. She’s the anchor that keeps me grounded and steady in the chaos.
Chloe Carmichael is my home.