Velvet Requiem (Book 3)

Graveside Confrontations

Two Weeks Later – Ronnie's Funeral

The church was packed, the air thick with the kind of grief that wrapped tight around Layla's chest and refused to let go. Draped in black from head to toe, Layla moved like a shadow between her friends and family. Her black dress hugged her frame, modest but elegant, while a thin veil shielded her puffy eyes. Jackie and Poma were never more than an arm's reach away, walking with her, offering steady hands when her knees threatened to buckle. Her mother clutched her hand tightly, thumb stroking her knuckles in an effort to quiet her trembling.

The service was nothing short of beautiful. Black hymns rose to the ceiling, deep voices and sorrowful notes filling every crevice of the room. The choir sang with their souls, and the pastor, a tall, dignified man in a tailored suit, delivered scripture with the weight of a thousand prayers behind it. Every word cut deep. Every "Amen" echoed through the pews, bringing heads low and tissues to faces.

Layla managed a tight smile as she embraced Mrs. Thomas, Ronnie's mother, and then Mr. Thomas. Their eyes were heavy with tears, lined faces revealing the burden of burying a child. Layla squeezed them both, words caught in her throat. "He was a king, and he always will be," she managed, her voice cracking.

She moved through the rest, hugging Ronnie's siblings, D-Mo, and their homeboys, all dressed to the nines in suits and chains that caught the dim light of the sanctuary. They greeted her with solemn nods, brief but meaningful exchanges that said more than words ever could. This was a moment that couldn't be dressed down—Ronnie's sendoff was fit for the boss he was. His casket gleamed, dark wood polished to a mirror shine, gold accents catching every flicker of candlelight. Inside, he was laid out fresh, dressed in his favorite suit, chains around his neck and rings on his fingers, his outfit nothing short of perfection.

When the time came, Layla leaned in for one last goodbye. She pressed a trembling kiss to his forehead, her tears falling softly onto his skin. "Rest easy, Ron," she whispered. "I'll carry the weight for you now." Her voice cracked, and she stepped back as the casket closed, sealing the moment forever.

The organ played again, a final hymn lifting spirits and heavy hearts alike. Hands were raised, voices called out in praise and pain, and the celebration of Ronnie's life carried on with a strength that mirrored the man he was.

As the somber notes of the final hymn fade, the congregation silently files out of the church, making their way to their cars lined up for the solemn procession to the burial site. Layla, still clad in her black veil, finds herself in the car with the three women who anchor her through this storm—her mother at the wheel, Jackie riding shotgun, and Poma beside her in the backseat.

Her mother starts the car and gently turns on the radio, letting soft gospel melodies seep into the car's interior, a subtle backdrop to the heavy silence that hangs between them. Layla leans into Poma, finding a sliver of comfort in the warmth of her friend's presence. Poma wraps an arm around her, sharing the burden of her grief.

As they pull into the long funeral line, Layla's eyes idly scan the procession of vehicles through her teary, half-lowered window. It's then she spots it—a familiar black sedan with a gleaming California license plate. It's out of place, an unwanted mystery amid the mourning. She squints through her tears, her heart sinking with a mix of fatigue and frustration.

"Why is he here? He didn't even know Ronnie," Layla murmurs, more to herself than anyone else.

Her mother catches the edge in her voice and offers a sympathetic glance through the rearview mirror. "Just focus on saying your goodbyes, baby," she says softly, her words a tender command to let go of the moment's intrusion.

Jackie turns slightly in her seat, her eyes reflecting Layla's troubled expression. "Ignore it, Lay. Today's about Ronnie. Don't let anything or anyone steal that from you."