"Dahlia, my girl, it’s time."
She lifts her head from his hand. Her face is wet. The tears came silent and she didn't wipe them off as they're running off her jaw and onto the blanket.
"You don’t have to step into my place. Do what you’ve always dreamed of, I will be watching you. I am proud of the young woman you’ve become and the one you will become," he says.
"Papa… please… please don’t go."
His fingers squeeze on hers. One last grip. "Tell Bam I said thank you. For taking care of what I couldn't. I love you, my little flower."
She nods. She can't speak. Her mouth opens and nothing comes out and she closes it and holds his hand tighter.
And then Aurelio Bonaccorso closes his eyes.
The room listens to him breathe. Twelve breaths. Twelve breaths, each one shallower than the last, and we stand around his bed, the five of us, and we listen to the man leave.
The monitor goes flat.
The sound is a single, continuous note.
The nurse comes in. She turns off the monitor. She checks his pulse. She looks at Leone and says, "I'm sorry," and the words sit in the room, and nobody acknowledges them.
Leone reaches over and closes Aurelio's eyes. His hand shakes. One tremor, quick, and then it steadies and he pulls the blanket up over Aurelio's chest, neatly, the way you'd tuck a child in, and the care in that gesture breaks something in the room that all of us were holding together.
Dahlia puts her head down on the bed and cries. The sound is muffled by the blanket and her arms and it's the worst sound I've ever heard because she is not a woman who cries and the fact that she's doing it now, in front of all of us, means the last wall is down and there's nothing left between her and the grief.
She’s broken and it’s spilling over.
Carmelo's hand is still on Aurelio's ankle. He doesn't let go. He stands at the foot of the bed with face wet, and his jaw is locked and he doesn't move. He won't move until someone makes him.
Claudio is beside me. I can feel him through the frequency. The vibration has gone silent. Not calm. Empty. The way a house sounds after everyone leaves. He's processing and he won't talk about it, but Charlotte will hold him through it because that's what Charlotte does.
I look at the man in the bed. The blanket tucked to his chest. The hands folded on his stomach, Dahlia still holding one. The face that's already changing, the muscles relaxing, the lines softening, the fury leaving his expression for the first time since I've known him.
He looks peaceful and I fucking hate it. Aurelio was never peaceful. He was restless and demanding and impossible and brilliant and he changed my life.
Leone walks to the window. He puts both hands on the sill and leans forward, and his shoulders curve inward and his head drops and he stands there, bent over the windowsill. The sound that comes out of him is quiet and private, one I shouldn't hear but I do because the room is small and grief doesn't care about who's listening.
Low, broken, from the chest, and then nothing. He straightens up, wipes his face with one hand, and turns around.
His face is the neutral, steadfast commander he always is. The transition takes less than two seconds and it's the most devastating thing I've ever watched because the man just buried his grief in real time and put the Don face on over the top of it. He will wear that face while he holds this family together because that's what Aurelio asked him to do and Leone has never once failed to do what Aurelio asked.
Not even once.
"Emilio," Leone says. "Claudio. Outside."
We follow him into the corridor. Dahlia stays with the body and Carmelo stays with Dahlia. Bam is in the hallway, back against the wall, and the look on his face when he sees Dahlia through the open door, bent over the bed with her face in the blanket, is the only time I've ever seen an expression on the mountain.
He goes in. He stands behind her and puts his hand on her back, and she reaches up without looking and grabs his wrist and holds on.
Leone closes the door. The three of us stand in the corridor and the compound is quiet and the hour is somewhere between late night and early morning.
It hits then… the Don of the Bonaccorso family is dead.
"I need an hour," Leone says. "Then I address the compound. Nobody in or out of Aurelios room until I've spoken to everyone.Claudio, find Carmelo a task. He can't stay in that room all night."
"He's not going to leave."
"Then give him a reason to. Whatever you need to tell him. Whatever errand, whatever job. He'll sit with the body until it calcifies if someone doesn't move him." Leone runs his hand over his face. His eyes are red, but his voice is strong. "I'll call the Castillos. They need to know. Ferrara will understand why we aren’t holding up our end while we grieve."
