Chapter 8 - The Funeral of Ash
Graceland Cemetery was blanketed in a suffocating shroud of pristine white snow. Ancient oak trees, heavy with frost, stood like silent sentinels over Victorian mausoleums and weathered granite headstones.
At 9:00 AM, the cold was absolute—fourteen degrees, with a windchill that bit through wool and leather like needles of ice.
A hundred yards away, hidden behind the stone pillars of a gothic tomb, stood Dante Moretti.
He wore an unbuttoned black overcoat over a dark suit, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a charcoal fedora. Snowflakes gathered on his broad shoulders and in his dark, unkempt beard. Beside him, Frank kept watch, scanning the perimeter for any opportunistic rivals who might try to exploit the Don's obvious vulnerability.
In the center of the snow-covered clearing stood a small, white marble pavilion.
A single black limousine was parked on the gravel pathway.
From the vehicle stepped Mateo Rossi, his arm carefully supporting Elena.
Dante’s breath hitched in his throat.
Elena wore a long black wool coat that reached her ankles, a thick black veil obscuring her face. She walked with agonizing slowness, her knees trembling beneath her with every step, her hand gripping Mateo’s forearm for dear life. She looked as fragile as blown glass, a ghost moving through a cemetery of ghosts.
Following behind them was a lone, elderly priest in dark vestments, carrying a tiny white oak casket no larger than a shoebox.
Dante sank his fingernails into the stone pillar behind him, chipping the granite as his heart broke into a million jagged shards.
There was no crowd. There were no flowers. There were no syndicate lieutenants paying respects to an heir.
It was just a mother, a priest, and a tiny white box holding all the shattered dreams of a ruined dynasty.
The priest placed the small casket onto the marble altar beneath the pavilion. He opened a small leather-bound Bible, his lips moving in silent, ancient prayers that were whipped away by the freezing winter wind.
Elena stepped forward.
She fell to her knees in the deep snow before the casket. She didn't care about the freezing slush soaking through her black coat. She reached out with both hands, wrapping her arms around the tiny wooden box, pressing her cheek against the cold white lacquer.
Dante could hear her weeping.
Even from a hundred yards away, above the howling wind, her sobs cut through the winter air like a physical blade. It was the sound of a mother whose soul had been excised from her body. She stroked the lid of the casket, rocking back and forth in the snow, whispering words only the dead could hear.
*“My brave boy... my little Leo... I’m sorry... I’m so sorry Mommy couldn't save you...”*
Dante dropped to his knees behind the stone pillar, mirroring her posture in the snow. He buried his face in his leather gloves, his massive shoulders heaving in silence. He wept for the tiny hands he would never hold. He wept for the first steps he would never see. He wept for the bedtime stories he would never read.
He was the King of Chicago, and he had murdered his own legacy with his own hands.
After twenty minutes, the priest gently placed a hand on Elena’s shoulder.
Mateo knelt down, carefully helping her to her feet. Elena refused to let go of the box until Mateo gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back as the crematorium attendants in dark gray uniforms stepped forward to carry the casket toward the furnace chapel.
As the attendants lifted the box, Elena let out a sharp, ragged gasp that ended in a faint moan. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body went completely limp in Mateo’s arms.
"ELENA!" Dante’s voice tore from his throat before he could stop himself.
He surged forward from behind the pillar, his boots churning through the deep snow, his hands outstretched.
"Boss, NO!" Frank hissed, grabbing Dante’s arm. "You can't go over there! Look at her!"
Dante stopped ten feet from the clearing, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with terror.
Mateo had already swept Elena into his arms, carrying her swiftly back toward the limousine while the ship’s physician, who had followed in a second car, rushed forward with an emergency medical bag.
Mateo turned his head, his cold eyes locking onto Dante standing like a madman in the snow.
Mateo didn't draw a weapon. He didn't yell.
He simply gave Dante a look of profound, devastating pity. Then he stepped into the limousine and slammed the door shut.
The black car glided away along the snow-covered gravel path, leaving Dante standing alone in the clearing, the falling snow already filling the footprints where Elena had knelt.
Dante walked slowly to the marble altar.
On the stone where the casket had rested lay a single white winter rose, its petals kissed by frost.
May you like
Dante reached out, his trembling fingers picking up the flower. He pressed the frozen petals to his lips, closing his eyes as the smoke from the crematorium chapel rose into the gray Chicago sky—white, pure, and vanishing into nothingness.
***
