Page 66 of Point of No Return

Her heels click as she disappears in the direction of the cafeteria. My phone buzzing in my pocket distracts me from watching her walk away.

4:16 AM Crew: The press is headed your way. Need a hand?

4:18 Skar: Got it handled.

After my father collapsed at the club, I was surprised the cameras hadn’t shown up at the house. They hadn’t yet caught wind of his death. But it’s only a matter of time before the press shows up now. By the time they get here, it will be too late to get out without being bombarded by questions. Questions which I’m sure my brother isn’t ready to handle.

I knew Tyson’s death was coming- and I knew all the things that would spiral out of control because of it. And while I was ready for the repercussions long before today, I can’t help but wish I had longer.

His death isn’t just the loss of a father to Aleks. It isn’t just the end of his reign. It’s the end of one era… and the beginning of a new one. The start of something only my hands will build. I can’t help but feel like I’m not ready.

Maybe I was never meant to be.

Chapter Thirty-One

Charlotte

All of Westos has gathered in one place. For one day, for one moment, it’s like the world mourns together. We bleed the same. We lose the same. We die the same. In the end, we all end up six feet underground.

The past two weeks have been nothing but funeral preparations, legal jargon, and business discussions. Nothing but smothering social obligations and questions about how the future of the Benenati empire is going to be handled. I know I should be paying more attention, but I can’t find it in myself to care about those things.

Aleks has become a drunken mess. If before he was a wild, careless teen partying away his responsibilities, now he’s the complete opposite. We’ve hardly spoken since the hospital- and if he isn’t talking to me, he certainly isn’t talking to Skar. He’s closed-off. Quiet. He’s drinking enough that during the few times we have spoken, he’s shaking like a cat before a bath.

The morning of the funeral, I was surprised to see that he dressed himself. I half-expected we’d have to send the servants into his room again just to resurrect him long enough to eat. But he was dressed in a black suit, ready at the bottom of the stairs before the servants had finished helping me get ready.

Skar appeared a moment later, and before the exchange between them could get any more tense, Aleks wordlessly got into the car and waited until we climbed in after him.

The rain starts just as we arrive at Hail Mary’s temple, and by the time the car pulls into the city, the swarms of people have already closed in. The city prepared for the masses. Five city blocks surrounding the temple have been closed off, and blockades surrounding the entrance already ward off hundreds of people. Cameras flash at our arrival, though the car tint is dark enough that no one can see a thing through the windows.

At some point, I must’ve grabbed Skar’s hand, and I don’t realize it until his fingers squeeze mine. Warm. Rough. Reassuring. The thought occurs to me that I should be the one reassuring him. I should be the one offering comforting words and sweet smiles. That’s what wives are supposed to do when their partner’s world gets turned upside down.

Whether or not Tyson’s death has really gotten to Skar, I can’t tell. Things between us haven’t changed. He still sleeps down the hall, we still hardly talk. Since our fight the night Tyson died, we have yet to exchange more than a few words. But it’s probably for the best. What little conversation we do have usually ends in an argument anyways.

Maybe if things were normal, I could give him the good things. Maybe if Tyson’s death didn’t mean that my mother’s plans are rolling into motion, I could be a wife that supports and comforts. Maybe if we were those kinds of people, I would.

But Skar and I… we’ve never been normal. Not from the start. So I settle for squeezing his hand back, and when the car door opens and the sound of the rain and the cameras clicking filters in, I play my part.

The rain is heavy as I step out first, keeping my head low, my face hidden behind the long, black veil obscuring my features. Skar follows close behind, Aleks even further back. There’s a fifty-step climb from the street to the arching entrance of Hail Mary’s. The steps are slick beneath my heels, and I’m careful to keep my head down as the reporters fire off questions at us:

“Mr. Benenati, what will you do now that your father is gone?”

“What will happen to Omenin?”

“Aleksander, are you planning on joining your brother’s company?”

There are so many faces, so many bodies standing on either side of the narrowing entrance toward the altar. People are reaching out, trying to touch us, some mumbling prayers. Others are crying, screaming for our attention.

I feel Skar’s chest pressing against my back, and the thick duster jacket he wears today is suddenly a barricade on either side of me, blocking me from sight and keeping me warm as we take the last few steps inside.

The ceiling stretches so high above our heads that at first it’s difficult to make out the paintings that span across it. Rain patters against the twelve massive stained-glass windows around the nave. Crimson red roses and snow white lilies scatter every surface, and bouquets teeming with ribbons separate the pews from the long aisle down the middle.

At the forefront of the sanctuary, another golden pane of glass beckons in the candlelight of the room. A black coffin glistens in the flickering light, and as we pass the hundreds of people already seated at the rows of pews, I realize there’s a separate stall for us to sit at beside the chancel. There, the priest stands patiently waiting. Aleks sits first, and I slide in next, acting as a buffer between the brothers as everyone stands and the ceremony begins.

Neither of them cry. Neither of them weep like the many in the audience. Prayers are being whispered, wishes being uttered, and when a procession of music begins, there’s voices singing out. Then in unison, everyone sits.

Skar’s face is unreadable, his mouth unmoving, and as the service continues, I find myself glancing over at him. He’s staring straight forward, but it’s like he can sense my gaze, sense that I’m trying to read the look on his face… because he rests his arm over the back of the pew behind me, his fingers brushing the black sleeve of my dress.

Heat radiates from him. I can see the dark ink peeking above the collar of his suit and disappearing beneath his shirt. I’ve only ever seen his tattoos that week after our wedding. We spent more time avoiding each other than we did in the same room, but there had been those two days when I sat on the dock beneath the sun… Watching him swim or tinker away in the boathouse. I saw the tattoos then. Saw the tanned skin they were inked across. And as I watch him now, I realize I want to see it again.

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