Page 3 of King of Omen

Vitto scooted over, and I slid into the pew next to him.

The wooden bench, cold against my legs, provided a brutal reality check that this was happening.

We sat side by side, shoulders touching, not speaking nor looking at each other, yet in alignment, drawing what little comfort we derived from our shared grief.

More people joined the service, and the priest soon kicked off the memorial.

Bianca’s coffin loomed at the front of the church, wreathed in flowers and flickering candlelight.

The organ warbled, and the priest’s voice droned on, his words a jumble of sound as I struggled to keep my composure. Weary with grief, tired and cranky as shit with jet lag from my long flight, I slumped over my clasped hands, staring at the floor.

Memories of Bianca flooded my mind - her warm smile and fierce love for her brother, our father, and us.

Fuck, I missed her.

Cancer had taken her too soon, in her early sixties, a fact she’d kept from my brothers and me for months to reduce our worry.

It had devastated all four of us, brothers, when she’d finally shared her poor health status on a video call just a few weeks ago.

We’d chided her for keeping her suffering from us.

She scolded us back for thinking she’d put herself before us and our work.

We choked back tears as she reassured us not to worry and that a dear friend was taking care of her in Australia. She also assured me she was having a rally and that the chemo was working.

Her sudden passing sent tectonic waves through us. Before we could organise flights and tickets from our hubs all over the globe, she was gone, leaving us bereft and distraught.

By grace, she hadn’t endured her pain for long, just three months from diagnosis to fare welling this earth in her sleep.

It didn’t make the grief any more unbearable.

A movement to my left caught my attention: a woman slipping into the front row on the other side of the aisle to my right.

The first pews were designated for family, but she was no relation I was aware of.

Her hat, a glorious, lilac-veiled creation, eclipsed her brow and obscured most of her profile.

My experienced eye told me under a brim, I’d find beauty, sensing her allure beneath its shadow.

When she lifted the face, I caught a glimpse of her delicate features and locked gazes with her.

A gut punch hit hard; my soul snatched away.

Her eyes were a sparkling shade of violet framed by hints of long, dark lashes. They swirled with mystery, untold sorrow, and hidden depths.

My heart lurched, transfixed.

My eyes travelled lower. I slow-blinked at the sheer exquisiteness of her face, so rare, so sculpted, so distinctive.

Skin honey gold, smooth and flawless, a pointed chin, soft, rosy cheeks and full lips.

A faint hint of floral perfume wafted from her direction, adding to her aura and riling me up to the core.

Clad, from head to toe, in lilac, her shoes were the same colour, and I lingered on the arch of her feet in the pointed-toe décolleté pump.

In this sombre setting, she stood out like a splash of vibrancy amongst the sea of navy and black.

Unable to tear away, I stole glances at her from the corner of my eye, trying to figure out who she might be.

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