Chapter 7
Ethan stood completely paralyzed in the center of the grand foyer. The air in the mansion felt completely devoid of oxygen. He looked at the abandoned black suitcase near the staircase, suddenly realizing it wasn't packed for a trip—it was left behind because she couldn't carry everything she was abandoning.
"What do you mean there was no wake?" Ethan asked, his voice trembling, the black smartphone slipping slightly against the sweat forming on his palm. "Her father was a respected man. She wouldn't just..."
"She had no one to stand with her, Ethan," Michael said, dropping the formal title again, the gravity of the situation stripping away all professional pretense.
"SHE BURIED HIM ALONE," Michael stated quietly, his phone voice echoing with a profound, heartbreaking finality. "She held a private cremation on Saturday morning. It was just her and the priest. I spoke to the funeral director twenty minutes ago to confirm it. She didn't invite any of your family. She didn't invite any of your associates."
Ethan’s face lost all its remaining anger. The furious, red-hot rage that had driven him to crack the plaster wall completely evaporated, leaving behind a cold, devastating emptiness.
He slowly pulled his left fist entirely away from the wall. The white plaster dust on his knuckles felt like ashes. He turned his body, his sharp, masculine features completely slack, and looked around the massive, empty mansion.
"She buried him alone," Ethan whispered to himself, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.
He pictured Claire—his beautiful, gentle wife—standing alone in a cold crematorium, dressed in black, holding the remains of the man who raised her. He pictured her looking around for her husband, the man who promised to protect her from the world, only to find an empty room. And he knew exactly where he was at that exact moment. He had been laughing with Vanessa, pouring expensive wine, actively ignoring the world.
His eyes fell on the abandoned space by the front door where Claire’s favorite beige trench coat used to hang. The small silver bowl on the console table where she always kept her keys was empty.
"SHE'S FLYING TO SEATTLE," Michael added softly through the receiver. "Her father owned a small cabin in the Pacific Northwest. I checked the commercial flight manifests. She boarded a flight to Seattle an hour ago. She bought a one-way ticket."
The camera-like focus of the moment seemed to move closer to his face. For the first time in his adult life, the powerful, feared mafia boss looked genuinely, utterly frightened.
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"Seattle," Ethan choked out. "She hates the cold. She hates being alone."
"She was already alone, sir," Michael replied.
