Page 145 of Dishonored

After everything, Caesar deserved that. He didn’t need her there to do it. Even if she needed him.

Hell, he might not even want her at all.

She would understand that, too.

NINETEEN

THIS WAS NOT how you thought it would end between us, did you, Papa?

That question lingered heavily in the back of Caesar’s mind as he stood at the very edge of his father’s grave. He was so close to the six-foot hole that the toes of his loafers hung over the edge, and dirt crumbled down onto the black casket from his weight.

Still, he didn’t move.

Not as the priest did his business, and said his prayers. Not as the people came to say goodbye. And not as the first shovelful of dirt was tossed down.

You always thought you would be burying me, didn’t you, Papa?

It was funny to him that in his mind, he referred to his father the way he had when he was just a young boy. As his papa, and not Angelo, or the bastard, like he had been using for the last several years.

On the outside, Caesar was sure he seemed disconnected from the funeral and burial to anyone watching. He made the bare minimum effort to do anything when it came to this day. He’d picked the church, and the burial plot for his father’s sake, but very little else. He left those details up to whoever wanted a say, and stepped way back.

Things were good once, weren’t they, Papa?

Back when he was little.

And Angelo cared.

Before Martina.

Caesar sucked in a deep breath, and finally looked away from the casket scattered with dirt on the top six feet down. He looked up instead—at the bright blue sky, and the fluffy clouds rolling overhead. Heat bore down on him, but he barely felt it even under his black three-piece suit when he was too busy feeling everything else.

God picked a good day for you to say goodbye, didn’t he, Papa?

It was just too bad that Caesar had said his goodbyes years ago. He’d said goodbye to the man his father once was, and to the things that could have been. He’d said goodbye to a lot of things, and today, he felt almost nothing for this.

He felt things, sure.

Too many things.

Not for this.

“You couldn’t even give me this, could you?”

Caesar’s vision blurred as he looked away from the bright sky to acknowledge the person speaking to him. He had to give it a second to adjust from the sunlight, but he wished he had just kept staring at the sky when he realized who was standing on the other side of the grave glaring at him.

Martina.

She was a mess.

Her dress crumbled.

Face streaked with tears.

Makeup ruined.

Heels caked in mud.

Drunk.