The Mafia's Jewel (BWWM)

25

I travel almost across town, the journey feeling like a disjointed dream. The landscape transitions from urban sprawl to the rolling hills that cradle the manor. As I drive, the surreal sensation deepens, as if I'm headed not to a funeral but to a lavish garden party.

The manor comes into view, its elegance starkly contrasting with the reason for my visit. It's perched majestically on the hillside, surrounded by a riot of color. An abundance of flowers—lilies, roses, and orchids in every shade imaginable—decorate the grounds. Their bright hues seem almost mocking against the backdrop of grief, their vibrant petals fluttering gently in the breeze.

The car rolls to a stop by the entrance, and I step out, taking in the breathtaking view. The manor itself is a masterpiece of modern Italian design—sleek lines, expansive windows, and a facade that gleams under the soft afternoon sun. Its grandeur only intensifies the surreal atmosphere, making the occasion feel even more dissonant.

Before I can reach for the doorbell, the door swings open. A woman's smile greets me, her bright eyes a small beacon of warmth in the midst of the somber setting. It's Vittoria, and though her eyes are red-rimmed, her smile is genuine, offering a sliver of comfort amid the heavy atmosphere.

"Jules, you made it," Vittoria says, her voice carrying a note of relief and gratitude.

"Of course," I reply, trying to match her warmth with my own smile. "Thank you for inviting me."

She nods, her gesture inviting and reassuring, and gently takes my arm. Her touch is light but firm as she leads me through the throng of mourners and family members. The guests move in clusters, their conversations hushed and filled with reverence. The air is heavy with the scent of flowers and the soft murmur of subdued voices.

"I want you to meet my family," Vittoria says, guiding me toward a group gathered near the entrance. Her voice softens as she navigates us through the sea of familiar faces and strangers, each marked by the shared sorrow of the occasion.

We approach a circle of people, and Vittoria begins to make introductions. Her in-laws, Elio's family, greet me with subdued politeness. Each handshake and nod is tempered with a quiet sadness, their eyes reflecting a profound sense of loss. There's a sense of unity among them, bound together by grief and the shared memories of Elio.

"And this," Vittoria says, her voice growing tender, "is my son, Dante."

She shifts her arm slightly, revealing a small baby clinging to her. Dante looks up at me with wide, curious eyes, his features a mirror of his father's. It's like seeing a miniature version of Elio, and the resemblance tugs at my heart. Dante's gaze is innocent and untainted by the grief that surrounds us, and I can't help but smile at the sight of him.

"He's adorable," I say, my voice soft as I reach out to gently admire him.

Vittoria's smile grows a little, her sadness momentarily softened by the presence of her son. "Thank you. He's been a great comfort during all of this."

"Hello there," I say gently. "You must be very brave today."

He babbles as if he understands me. Vittoria rests a hand on his head, her face a mixture of pride and heartbreak."He's a lot like his grandfather," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

I place a comforting hand on Vittoria's arm. "Thank you for letting me be here," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "It means a lot."

She squeezes my hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "You're part of the family now, Jules."

"You don't have to say that.."

"Hey, I mean it. No matter how corny it sounds."

I look at the flowers, and I realize that this moment is more than just a farewell to Elio. It's a commitment to the fight ahead, to the bond we've forged in the face of unimaginable loss. And I know, no matter what comes next, we will face it together.

I step further into the house, and I'm immediately struck by how inviting it feels. Despite the somber occasion, there's a sense of warmth and comfort in the air. The walls are adorned with tasteful artwork, and the furniture is a blend of modern elegance and classic Italian charm. Soft light filters through large windows, illuminating the room in a gentle glow.

I make my way through the house, speaking with various members of Vittoria's family. Her in-laws are gracious and welcoming, despite their evident grief. Elio's sister, a dignified woman with kind eyes, talks about Elio's childhood, sharing anecdotes that make us both smile. His cousin, a stoic man, nods solemnly as we speak, his eyes betraying the depth of his loss. I also met her husband, a humble man with kind eyes.

"Jules, could you please come with me?" Vittoria's voice breaks through my conversation. I turn to see her standing near the doorway, a gentle but insistent look on her face.

"Of course," I reply, excusing myself from the group. Vittoria leads me through the house and out to the backyard.

The backyard is stunning. The garden is meticulously maintained, with vibrant flowers and lush greenery providing a colorful backdrop. A soft breeze rustles the leaves, adding a serene quality to the setting. In the center of the garden, there's a picture frame of Elio, his smile forever captured in a moment of happiness. Next to it is a closed casket, a symbolic presence since his body was turned to ash in the fire.

"Everyone, please gather around," Vittoria calls out to the guests. Slowly, people make their way to the backyard, forming a semicircle around the picture and casket.

The ceremony begins. One by one, people step forward to speak about Elio, paying tribute to his life. A childhood friend talks about their adventures and mischief, painting a picture of Elio as a boy full of energy and curiosity. A former colleague speaks of his dedication and passion, describing how Elio always went above and beyond in his work.

As each person speaks, I feel the weight of Elio's absence more acutely. These stories, filled with love and admiration, highlight the man he was and the void he has left behind.

Vittoria steps forward, holding her son's hand. She looks at the picture of Elio, her eyes filled with tears. "Elio was my rock, my love, and the father of my child," she begins, her voice trembling but strong. "He was taken from us too soon, but his spirit will always be with us. We will honor his memory by living our lives fully, just as he did."

Her words resonate deeply, and I can see others nodding in agreement, their faces wet with tears. Vittoria's son clings to her leg, looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes.

After Vittoria speaks, there's a moment of silence, a collective pause to reflect on Elio's life and legacy. The breeze picks up again, carrying the scent of flowers and the soft murmurs of the guests.

A commotion at the edge of the garden catches everyone's attention. It starts as a murmur, a ripple of unease that quickly grows into a wave of panic. Heads turn, their expressions shifting from curiosity to alarm as men in black suits emerge from the shadows, their presence jarring against the backdrop of the serene garden. The contrast is stark: the men's crisp, dark attire and impassive expressions clash with the vibrant colors and peaceful atmosphere of the funeral.

The men move with a purposeful stride, their faces obscured by dark sunglasses that hide their emotions and intentions. They cut through the crowd like a knife through silk, their movements synchronized and deliberate. The guests, who moments ago were solemnly paying their respects, recoil in horror. Faces turn pale, and eyes widen in terror. Panic spreads like wildfire, a wave of fear that crashes over the assembly.

Screams pierce the air, sharp and jarring, as people instinctively pull their loved ones close. Some stumble backward, their feet slipping on the manicured grass as they try to escape the encroaching threat. Children are lifted into arms, and cries of confusion and fear mingle with the sound of hurried footsteps and shuffling bodies. The once calm garden is now a scene of chaos and desperation.

Amid the tumult, one man steps forward, his demeanor unsettlingly calm and composed. It's Leone. His suit is impeccably tailored, every detail of his appearance meticulously arranged. The fabric gleams darkly in the sunlight, and his tie is perfectly knotted. Leone's smirk is a chilling contrast to the panic around him—it's almost as if he finds the chaos amusing, a twisted display of his control over the situation.

His gaze sweeps over the crowd before landing on me. I feel a shiver run down my spine, a cold, uncomfortable sensation that makes my skin crawl. His eyes, sharp and calculating, lock onto mine. The smirk on his face widens, and I can almost see the cruel satisfaction in his expression.

"There you are, Jules."