Beneath The Concrete Heart

Chapter 9: War Part I(edited)

Andreas POV

Bamboka let me go without a word, a chilling understanding passing between us. I was grateful, though the silence felt heavy, laced with unspoken grief. The world felt muted, dimmed by the stark reality: LaRosa had killed Tim. My shadow. My friend. My brother in arms. Tim, with his infectious laugh and terrible jokes, always swore he'd be at my wedding, embarrassing me with some drunken toast. Now, he was just... gone. An empty space where his boisterous presence used to be. The thought twisted in my gut, a bitter knot of pain and rage.

The airport blurred past in a haze. My men, stone-faced and silent, picked me up, their presence offering a grim comfort. The car ride was a suffocating vacuum of unspoken sorrow. Each mile felt like another nail hammered into Tim's coffin. When we finally arrived at my place, the air hung thick with mourning. Tim's body, washed and prepared, lay in an open casket, a somber centerpiece. Even in death, his familiar features were etched with a faint smile, a cruel reminder of the life that had been stolen. His brothers, a formidable wall of black suits and grief-stricken faces, stood vigil. Their eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, reflected my own pain a hundredfold.

I walked into the room, the click of my shoes echoing in the heavy silence. Every head turned, every gaze focused on me, a silent accusation hanging in the air. Explanations were expected. I had let them down. I had allowed a member of their family, one of their own blood, to die. Tim shouldn't have been involved in this war, I knew that. But he was loyal, fiercely so. And that loyalty had cost him everything.

I swallowed, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. My voice, when it came, was hoarse, raw with grief and guilt. "Tim is dead. He poured his blood and sweat into this Mafia, into this family. We will not let his sacrifice be in vain. To his brothers, I vow on the Sanchez name, tendré la cabeza de LaRosa." I will have LaRosa's head. The promise hung in the air, a vow etched in blood.

The declaration seemed to galvanize them. The drunk men, the ones who'd been openly weeping, their faces contorted with grief, straightened, their eyes hardening with a newfound resolve. The procession began, a slow, agonizing march of grief. Tim's coffin, polished dark wood gleaming under the dim light, was carried by his brothers, their shoulders straining under the weight of their sorrow and their loss. We took him to the lake he loved, that quiet sanctuary where he often went to clear his head and find solace.

The air was crisp, the water still and reflective, mirroring the somber faces gathered on the shore. We placed the coffin on a small raft, a makeshift vessel to carry him to his final rest.

His eldest brother approached me, his face etched with a weariness that went beyond grief. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Él hubiera querido que le dijeras el último adiós." He would have wanted you to say the last goodbye. He handed me a crumpled piece of paper, yellowed with age. It was a letter Tim had written to himself when he was a boy, full of youthful bravado and naive dreams.

The childish scrawl jumped out at me: "Big Tim, when you die, Make sure you get a chief's goodbye."

I knew instantly what he meant. A choked laugh escaped my lips, a bitter counterpoint to the tears that streamed down my face. Even in this moment of profound sorrow, Tim's humor, his unwavering spirit, shone through. I walked to the makeshift podium, the wooden planks creaking beneath my weight. The raft, carrying its precious burden, began to drift away, pulled by the gentle current. I faced the water, the somber crowd fading into a blur behind me. Silence descended, heavy and expectant.

I took a deep breath, the cold air burning in my lungs. No more death. No more loss. LaRosa would pay. LaRosa will die.

My fist clenched, knuckles white against my palm. This I vow. I opened my mouth, my voice resonating across the still water.