Page 11 of Bene

Instead, she’d dry-sobbed, an ugly cry that ached deep in her chest, left her throat raw, and kept her gasping for air when she just couldn’t take in enough. Her sobs had carried over the graveyard long after all the mourners left, although none of those people felt the same way she did about the man she was forced to bury that day.

None of them understood her pain.

Or they did but didn’t care.

That’s how she remembered her father’s funeral.

Painfully.

That was five years ago.

To the fucking day.

She stopped visiting her father’s grave as much as she used to that first couple of years after his murder. Instead of twice a week, it was only on Sundays after church. And then she slowed to a couple of times a month, and now it was just once.

Did that mean the grief was settling?

That it hurt less?

That she didn’t feel alone?

No.

It simply meant that standing here didn’t give her the same tangible connection to her father that she used to have when she came to the grave. Sometimes, she felt it more when she was walking down a street and passed one of Adam’s favorite places—things had changed in five years, sure, but some things remained the same. Other times, she felt him better when she stood at this spot, and looked down at his grave.

It did hurt more here, though.

She had to remember the funeral.

And what came before.

“Hey.”

Vanna’s head popped up at the familiar voice, finding Mario standing just outside her classroom. The Detti principe, people called him. Or the clan—the grandson of the Camorra boss, he was fucking royalty in their circles. Maybe it was his bloodline and the last name, but Mario got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. All he had to do was snap his fingers, and someone would jump to fill his demands.

He was just another boy to her, though.

A boy who seemed to like her, sure, but Vanna wasn’t interested.

She liked Mario well enough, but just not like that. And usually, when he was waiting for her at their private school, it was because something bad happened. Especially after a class. It meant someone would be waiting outside to take them home. So was the Camorra way. When shit went bad, they protected the clan first.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Mario tried to smile.

It didn’t come.

“Mario?”

He glanced to the side, and Vanna followed his stare. Down the hallway, she found a familiar man—no, that was wrong. Two men stood there, waiting. One stood a little ahead of the other, his arms crossed at his front, and his three-piece, black suit tailored to perfectly fit his form. He was an imposing sight, Mario’s father.

Senior, they called him.

The right-hand man to the current Camorra boss, Senior’s father. Senior would likely follow his father’s footsteps, and someday head the clan as the boss. Like Mario, too. Or that’s what people liked to say. Vanna didn’t know if she believed it, or if she even cared. After all, her father promised it would be him as the boss soon enough.

Very soon, if his plans went off as he said they would.

Behind Mario’s father, the other man stood as stoic and silent as he did. Waiting, she thought. It seemed like they were waiting for them. But why?