The Funeral

Sofia Bianchi stood at the edge of the open grave, the Miami sun beating down on her black silk dress like it wanted to burn the grief right out of her. The air hung thick with the scent of fresh-turned earth and wilting lilies, and every breath tasted like salt and regret. Her father’s casket gleamed under the light, polished wood reflecting the faces of men who had once called him king. Now they watched her instead.

She kept her spine straight, shoulders squared, the way he had taught her. But inside, the ache clawed at her ribs. Papa was gone. Assassinated in his own study two nights ago, and the syndicate he had built was already fracturing. Whispers traveled through the crowd of mourners. Rival underbosses lingered at the edges of the cemetery, their eyes sharp, calculating. Malik Rossi stood among them, lean and smirking, his cold blue gaze fixed on her like she was already prey.

“Stay close, Sofia,” Uncle Vito murmured at her side, his voice low and measured. The older man’s salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his conservative suit doing nothing to hide the tension in his stocky frame. “They smell blood in the water.”

She nodded once, refusing to let her voice crack. “I know. Let them look.”

Her long raven hair was pinned into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and the deep brown of her eyes stayed dry even as the priest droned on. She would not cry here. Not where they could see weakness. The syndicate needed a leader, not a grieving daughter. Yet the weight of it pressed down, heavy and relentless. Her father’s empire was hers now, but it was weakened, vulnerable. Without allies, it would crumble before the first week ended.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Sofia lifted her gaze and saw him.

Dominic Romano moved through the mourners like a blade cutting silk. Six-foot-three of powerfully muscled frame, olive skin darkened by years under the same relentless sun, dark wavy hair combed back from a face that could have been carved from stone. His gray eyes scanned the cemetery with lethal precision, scarred hands relaxed at his sides despite the impeccably tailored black suit that hugged every inch of him. The Blade had arrived.

He stopped just behind the line of Bianchi soldiers, gaze locking on her across the grave. The first charged eye contact hit like a spark to dry tinder. Sofia felt it low in her belly, a tightening she refused to acknowledge. He was the enforcer sent by the allied Romano family to seal their agreement. The marriage. The one her father had arranged in his final days to protect her. She had agreed in theory. Now, staring at the man who would become her husband, the reality settled cold and sharp.

Malik Rossi chose that moment to step forward, his flashy demeanor at odds with the solemn occasion. “Sofia,” he called, voice dripping with false sympathy. “Such a loss. Your father would want you to consider strong protection. My family can offer that. Better than some hired blade from up north.”

His words carried, drawing attention. Rivals shifted closer, testing the waters. Sofia’s pulse kicked, but she kept her expression regal. “This is a funeral, Malik. Show some respect.”

Dominic crossed the space between them in three strides, his presence swallowing the air. He stopped at her side, close enough that the heat of his body cut through the humid afternoon. “The lady said respect,” he growled, voice low and commanding. “You’d do well to listen.”

Malik’s smirk faltered, but he didn’t retreat. “And who are you to speak for her?”

Dominic didn’t answer with words. Instead, he turned to Sofia, one scarred hand rising to cup the back of her neck with possessive certainty. His piercing gray eyes held hers for a heartbeat, asking nothing, promising everything. Then he pulled her in.

The kiss was public, deliberate, and searing. His mouth claimed hers without hesitation, lips firm and demanding, tongue brushing once in a stroke that sent heat flooding through her despite the grief still lodged in her chest. Sofia’s hands came up to his chest on instinct, fingers curling into the expensive fabric of his suit. She tasted power and danger, felt the hard line of his body press against her curves. The message was unmistakable. She was claimed. The alliance was sealed. Rivals would back down or bleed.

A collective hush fell over the cemetery. Malik’s face darkened, but he took a step back, then another. The other underbosses exchanged glances and melted into the crowd. Dominic’s kiss lingered just long enough to make the point, then he drew away, thumb brushing her lower lip in a gesture both tender and territorial.

“That’s enough,” Sofia said, voice steadier than she felt. Her cheeks burned, but she refused to look away from him. The charged eye contact held again, heavier now, laced with the first threads of reluctant awareness. He was not a man who asked. He took. And she had just become his to protect.

Uncle Vito cleared his throat softly. “The cars are waiting. We should move this discussion somewhere private.”

Dominic’s hand stayed at the small of her back as they walked away from the grave, guiding her with quiet authority. The touch burned through the silk of her dress. “Your father made the right call,” he said once they were out of earshot of the others. “This marriage keeps you alive. Keeps the syndicate breathing.”

Sofia stopped beside the waiting black SUV, turning to face him fully. The sun caught the scar tissue across his knuckles, reminders of every man he had broken for his family. “I agreed because I had no choice. That doesn’t mean I trust you.”

His mouth curved in a slow, dangerous smile. “Trust comes later, Sofia. Right now, survival is enough. You’re mine to guard. Mine to claim. And I don’t share.”

She held his gaze, the weight of the decision settling between them like the humid Miami air. The kiss had already spoken louder than any contract. Rivals had seen it. The alliance was real. Her father’s legacy would continue under their combined rule, whether she liked the man or not.

“Then we do this my way when it comes to the syndicate,” she said, voice low and commanding. “I won’t be a figurehead.”

Dominic’s gray eyes darkened with something that looked dangerously like approval. “We’ll see how that plays out, Queen. Get in the car.”

She slid into the back seat without another word, the door closing behind them like the sealing of a pact. The funeral was over. The real fight had just begun.