The church bells rang slowly, each one heavy and clear as it echoed through the cathedral's stone walls. Black cars lined the street in neat rows, engines off and windows dark. Armed men stood apart, their faces blank and eyes alert. The place felt powerful, shaped by grief.
Lorenzo Moretti got out of the car, dressed in black. His suit fit perfectly, and he stood tall, his face unreadable. Only those who knew him well would notice his tight jaw, stiff shoulders, and the way his hands curled into fists before he forced them to relax.
Inside, the cathedral was full. People in black moved aside as Lorenzo walked down the center aisle, his footsteps loud and steady on the marble. No one whispered. The only sounds were the soft hum of the air system and the uneasy shifting of hundreds holding their breath. He felt their stares, some kind, most judging.
At the front of the church, her coffin rested.
It was closed.
White lilies surrounded it, their scent sharp and overwhelming, clashing with the darkness of the room. A framed photograph stood beside the casket. Her smile was soft, her eyes warm, frozen in a moment that was gone.
Lorenzo's gaze lingered there for only a second before he looked away.
He stood rigid beside the front pew, the place reserved for family. His presence alone seemed to quiet the room as he moved. Men lowered their heads in respect. Some bowed slightly. Others watched him with thinly veiled curiosity, measuring him, wondering if grief had weakened him.
It hadn't.
Not yet.
The priest's voice droned on, talking about heaven, peace, and eternal rest. Lorenzo heard none of it. His mind replayed fragments instead: the sound of her laughter, the way she squeezed his hand twice when she was nervous, the look in her eyes when she said she trusted him.
A lie now. Or maybe a promise he had failed to keep.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"She shouldn't have been with a man like him."
"She was just a middle-class girl. What did she expect?"
"Such a shame. So young."
Lorenzo felt every word like a slap, but he didn't turn. He didn't react. He memorized the voices instead and filed them away. Grief did not erase instinct; it made it sharper.
When the ceremony ended, people stood one by one, offering condolences that sounded rehearsed.
"My deepest sympathies, Lorenzo."
"She was fortunate to be loved by you."
"If there's anything we can do…"
Empty words. Polished lies.
Then he saw them.
Her family.
Her father stood stiffly, shoulders squared, eyes red but dry. He was a man trying hard not to break. Her mother leaned into him, her face pale, grief showing in every line. They looked out of place among the luxury suits and diamond-studded dresses, ordinary people surrounded by power.
Lorenzo approached them without hesitation.
He stopped in front of her father and did something no one expected.
He bowed. And for the first time, he cried.
His shoulders shook once, just enough to show his pain. The sound he made was soft and respectful, a shaky breath echoing under the high arches. He reached out and placed his hand over her mother's folded fingers, his head still bowed as tears fell freely.
Then the silence shattered.
Camera flashes erupted at the cathedral doors, harsh and blinding against the stained glass. Reporters whispered, shouted, and pushed forward, out of place in a place meant for mourning. His guards, dressed in black, moved quickly to block cameras and push the press out of the sacred space.
Lorenzo did not look up. He did not wipe his tears.
"I am sorry," Lorenzo said quietly.
"I failed her."
Her father's breath hitched.
He shook his head slowly, gripping Lorenzo's arm with trembling hands.
"No," he said hoarsely.
"You loved her. That was enough."
Lorenzo swallowed hard.
"I will take care of everything," Lorenzo said.
"Anything you need. Anything at all."
Her mother reached out and touched his sleeve.
"Please," she whispered.
"Just remember her kindly."
"I will remember her always," Lorenzo replied.
Behind them, Marco Moretti watched.
His expression was calm. Too calm.
As the coffin was lifted and carried outside, Lorenzo followed, his steps careful. The sun was blinding after the dimness inside. The sound of soil hitting wood echoed too loudly as they lowered her into the ground.
This was real.
This was final.
Lorenzo stood still as the last flower was placed on the grave. He did not move. He felt empty, changed by loss and filled with something colder.
As the crowd began to disperse, Marco stepped closer, his voice low enough that only Lorenzo could hear.
"This ends today, you even cried in public" his father said.
"We move forward."
Lorenzo didn't look at him.
"The wedding preparations will resume," Marco continued. "The world is watching. Weakness is not an option."
Slowly, Lorenzo turned.
His eyes were dark. Steady. Dangerous.
"She isn't even buried yet," Lorenzo said.
"And still," Marco replied smoothly, "the wedding must continue."
The bells rang again, distant now.
Lorenzo looked back at the grave, at the woman he had loved, fought for, and lost.
Something inside him hardened.
Someone did this,
he thought to himself
But he can't figure out the person.