Sinscared Series #1
A forbidden love.
A betrayal lurking in the shadows.
And a world built on blood, deception, and vengeance.
In the ruthless world of the Italian mafia, loyalty is power, betrayal is death, and love... is a dangerous game.
Serafi...
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The day of Luca's funeral was gray and overcast, the sky heavy with unshed rain.
The air was thick with a somber quietude, a fitting backdrop for the mourners gathered to say their final goodbyes.
The cemetery was filled with friends, family, and associates, all sharing in the collective grief of losing someone who had been a part of their lives for so long.
I stood at the front of the crowd, my face a mask of controlled sorrow.
I had cried all I could the night before, and now I was a vessel of determination and silent fury.
My eyes were dry but red-rimmed, my posture stiff with the effort of holding myself together.
I wore a simple black dress, elegant yet understated, and a black veil that obscured my face from curious onlookers.
Beside me, Michele stood tall, a silent sentinel clad in black.
He hadn't said much since we arrived-his eyes stayed fixed on the casket like he was daring it to be a lie.
His jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides, but he never moved.
It was Luca in that coffin. Luca, who was more than just my best friend-he was his brother, too.
Luca's father, Luigi, stood nearby, shoulders bowed under the weight of his grief.
A strong man, weathered by years of hardship, but today... today he looked fragile, broken.
He leaned heavily on a cane, his eyes never leaving the polished wood of the casket that held his only son.
My father stood to my left, his face unreadable. He had seen many funerals in his time-too many-but this one cut deeper.
This was Luca.
The boy who'd shadowed me through adolescence, the one who had earned Papà's rare approval.
The loss sparked a quiet fury in him, and it echoed in the silence between us.
Lucien stood a few feet away, uncertain, as if unsure whether his presence was welcome.
He had come out of respect, despite the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
Eleanor was conspicuously absent—perhaps wisely.
The priest began the service, his voice a low murmur that blended with the rustle of wind through the trees.
I barely heard a word.
My mind replayed everything—the ambush, the blood, the moment I'd realized I couldn't save him. That wound still bled, invisible but unbearable.
As the service ended, the mourners began to file past the casket. Faces blurred. Voices were whispers.
