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You're thinking what I'm thinking, right?
I nod again.
And it's true.
I am thinking what Sarica and the rest of our famiglia are thinking.
And it's how each and every one of us wishes we didn't have to go through this farce at all.
But we have to.
So many assets of our famiglia are tied up to Giancarlo's name. Bank accounts that we can't access. Properties that we can't enter. And so many other things that we can't claim or use until we do as the world wants.
Giancarlo is dead.
It's what they've forced us to claim.
For now.
And it's so easy to see which of the people around me are rejoicing.
They think they've won.
Because they smell blood.
Or so they think.
My gaze moves to the massive twenty-foot marble doors of our mausoleum. The line outside stretches as far as my eyes can see. And then some.
Most of the faces are familiar. And they were people who loved Giancarlo as their prince.
But the others?
Since news of Giancarlo going missing first broke out, and details of his helicopter crashing in the untouched forests of Moskra eventually made public, people who once sought our favor now desired our downfall. They've been sniffing about like a starving pack of hyenas—-
(Because they think they smell blood.)
And circling around us like a soulless kettle of vultures.
(Because they think we're weak.)
It's almost as silly and laughable as those rumors about Sarica and Nonna, really.
And if circumstances were different, we would have let them know exactly what we think of them.
Politely, of course.
But we don't.
We can't.
For now.
Because there are things we must do.
And those things we can only do if we act as they wish.
The world wants us to move on, and so we do.
