As if on cue, my mother passes by. “Take that cap off. You look like a hooligan.”
Boyana and the twins tilt their heads. Those curious crows, ready to peck at every word of our exchange! My blood boils. If there’s one thing I hate more than my mother’s constant attempts to manage me, it’s her doing it in front of an audience. Doesn’t she realize how much she humiliates me?
I clench my fists, debating how to shut her down. I can’t tell her the real reason for the baseball cap… but I can give her a good enough excuse to back off. “My hair’s greasy. I didn’t have time to wash it.”
The twins’ eyebrows shoot up to their hairlines. Did I just admit to stealing food from a homeless person, or something?
Fuck them.
My mother frowns, her focus flicking to the Deliberov family, who’ve claimed the central table and are receiving condolences. More specifically, to the young Deliberov. She sees the current situation as the perfect chance to “console” the grieving heir to a business empire.
Well, not this time. I slip into the crowd, seeking some solitude. I retreat to a quiet corner, waiting for my parents to finish mingling with the elite. My eyes drift back to the Deliberov family. Besides the widowed Mrs. Deliberov and their youngest son, the rest of the children are also here. Mrs. Deliberov’s gaze reminds me of a cold ocean as she accepts condolences.
Silvia, her daughter, married an Arab sheikh and lives in Dubai. For the occasion, she’s wearing a gown from Elie Saab’s latest collection. Her husband stands beside her, tall in a tailored black suit. He appears to be the picture of elegance and loyalty to his wife, if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes constantly wander around the room, seeking anything on long legs and heels. The tabloids enjoy publishing photos of the sheikh’s alleged mistresses—blondes, brunettes, and even some famous actresses have appeared on the pages.
The other son, Martin, has a lanky build and a hunched posture. He’s dressed in a classic black suit, but his shirt’s unbuttoned one notch too far, and his tie is crooked. Rumor has it he’s survived two suicide attempts and has been struggling with a psychiatric diagnosis the family keeps under lock and key. People say his instability is why his father never trusted him with the business, despite being the older son.
And then there’s Daniel himself, with his slicked-back dark hair and a calculating gaze that assesses the worth of everyone in the room. Not unlike the sheikh, he can’t keep his attention on the endless condolences. His rumored lover boy is the only journalist allowed at the funeral. I bet he’ll be allowed somewhere else tonight, too.
I scan the crowd again. This time, I’m searching for a tall figure with dark hair and tattooed hands. He’s not here.
And the worst part? I’m not sure whether to feel relieved.
* **
Until now, I believed his presence shook me the most. That the sight of Gaetano, the darkness in his eyes, was the peak of my tension. But waiting for his next appearance… that’s what’s truly unbearable.
Those hours feel more torturous than the days awaiting an execution.
My phone buzzes sometime after dinner.
Daria:anything new??
I sigh, staring at the screen, thumb hovering. I text back,Still breathing. Still no sign of him
A few seconds later, the typing bubble appears. I imagine her pacing her room.Another message follows:I’m worried, Niki
I pause. What good would it do if I admit that I’mnotworried? I’m fucking freaking out.Maybe he died from his woundI type.
Daria:should we call the cops??
Me:Yeah, hi, 911? That guy I stabbed in the fields is not texting me back
She doesn’t reply for a while. The typing bubble vanishes. Reappears. Vanishes again.
I type:Let’s talk tomorrow, then toss the phone onto the blanket.
The clock in my room counts down the last moments of the day, each second like hot wax dripping across my skin. I can’t bear to stay here, but I also can’t leave. Because if he shows up, I don’t want any witnesses.
What’s taking him so long?
While I struggle to stay awake, memories of the graveyard flash through my mind. The freshly dug gravefor Mr. Deliberov, the earth raw and gaping. The polished marble headstone, grand and towering, carved with more money than most people will see in a lifetime. The fading gleam of the coffin, swallowed by the dirt.
My family is wealthy, but the Deliberovs are powerful. Still, what’s the difference when it comes to death?
It could have been my funeral tonight. If Gaetano had retaliated, I would’ve lost everything. But for some reason, he let me pass the first trial. And now, two more remain. I’m bound to face them regardless of my father’s wealth, our family name, and dozens of influential connections. None of it changes the simple truth: I could be dead in two weeks.
Something flickers across the wall. I jerk upright, my breath stuttering. For a heartbeat, I swear a shadow moved just beyond the edge of my vision! But when I scan the room… Only the curtains stir, lit by the headlights of the cars passing down the street..
