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They said there were five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But I didn’t feel any of those when I got the call that Dad died. I didn’t feel anything.

Even now, I felt nothing more than fog in my brain and a heaviness in my chest that made it hard to breathe. I couldn’t cry even when I was dying to. I knew I would get some sort of relief if I did, but I couldn’t.

A couple of days had passed since I got that call, and I still couldn’t understand how I went from sipping coffee in a beautiful café to standing in a cemetery where the scent of roses and damp earth clung to the cold air, mixing with the lingering sting of loss.

I was surrounded by friends and a few of Dad’s family. Mom couldn’t make it down here because I’d fixed the burial as quickly as I could. I couldn’t stand the thought of Dad remaining in the morgue in the state his body was found in. I’d seen him. I’d seen the hole right in the middle of his head and the stitched-up stab wounds. I’d felt the coldness of his skin when I touched him.

None of it made sense to me. None of it ever would.

Today wasn’t like it was on the day he’d died. The sun wasn’t out in full force, and the streets weren’t buzzing. The sky mourned with me, gray clouds hanging low as if they, too, carried the weight of my father’s death.

Dad was gone, and I was expected to stand here and read a few words from a piece of paper like they could convey everything I wanted to say. I was supposed to bury him and move on like my world hadn’t been torn apart. What a joke.

I clutched the paper in my hand and smiled at everyone who came to pay their last respects. They all looked at me with pity, as if they could see how much I struggled to hold myself together.

I glanced down at the paper in my hands, trying to read from it, but I couldn’t see past my blurry vision. I wasn’t going to cry, but it was hard to stop the tears from welling in my eyes.

Reading something pre-written wasn’t going to suffice.

I crumpled the paper, squeezing it harder than necessary, and conveyed what I truly wanted to say.

“I always knew death was inevitable, but I never thought I’d have to stand here and say goodbye to my father so soon.” I paused and drew a shaky breath. “My father, Peter Rae, was many things. A provider. A protector. A man who carried his own demons but still tried to shield me from them. He was far from perfect, but he was still my father who loved me very much, and now he’s gone.”

A sob from one of the well-wishers distracted me. It was my father’s youngest sister, Aunt Bianca. She was the only one of his siblings who didn’t fear him or judge him so cruelly, and she was the only one of them who showed any real pain at his death. Dad would be happy to know that she was here to send him off. I doubt he’d be happy to know that Mom couldn’t make it.

“People say that time heals all wounds and that grief fades. But how do you heal from a loss that doesn’t just leave a wound but rips out a piece of you entirely?” I paused and took another deep breath. “My father lived a life in the shadows. He made choices I didn’t always understand, but beneath it all, he loved me, and he didn’t deserve to die this way. He didn’t deserve this. I don’t know who took him from me, and I don’t know why. But I do hope he rests in peace and knows I loved him very much.”

Tears trailed down my face for the first time after my speech, my hands trembling as I thought of my father. I wondered what he felt in his final moments, how scared he must’ve been knowing his life had come to an end.

I wondered if he thought of me and Mom, if he was sorry he wasn’t around more.

The weight of my own words pressed against my chest, suffocating. I swallowed hard, willing myself not to break, not in front of all these people. Not now.

Then, I felt it.

A shift in the air. A presence that was more unsettling than comforting.

I lifted my gaze, and that was when I saw them.

A small group of men stood near the back of the crowd, dressed in black, their expressions cold as ice. They didn’t belong here—not in the way everyone else here did, and I knew who they were right from the moment I saw them.

They were the Russian mafia my father worked for, and they were here to pay their last respects, too. At least they didn’t consider him a worthless animal who didn’t deserve to be mourned, but it didn’t stop my fingers from curling into my palms.

This must’ve been the second stage of grief—rage.

Dad would have been here if it weren’t for those men. He wouldn’t have been murdered so cruelly if he didn’t get entangled with them.

Red-hot anger flared in my chest, followed by the immense need for revenge.

I stiffened, my chest heaving with more hatred for them than I could control.

I had spent my entire life knowing these men existed. They were dangerous. Cold. Merciless. And now, they stood here, acting like they had any right to grieve him.

My gaze swept over them quickly, my heart hammering as I tried to process the reality of their presence. And then I saw him.

A man stood slightly apart from the others; his posture was relaxed, yet his piercing blue eyes were sharp and watchful. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a rugged jaw and an air of authority that made my pulse stutter. His dirty-blond hair was neatly cut, but there was something about him—something unruly.

Our eyes met.

A silent current passed between us, something unreadable, something that made my skin prickle. He didn’t look away. Neither did I.

Mysterious. Dark. Like all of them.

But there was something different about him, something I couldn’t place.

The priest’s voice pulled me back, signaling the end of the ceremony, and I blinked, breaking the stare.

A prayer was said, Dad was lowered into the ground, and his grave was covered. That was it. That was the end of everything he was.

I stayed beside him hours after everyone else dispersed, just wanting to be near him. Life was fickle; I knew that now, and it broke my heart that I could never get the father-daughter date I’d so badly wanted. I couldn’t fish with him or go for a fancy dinner with him ever again.

This was the end of Peter Rae.

***

I had no idea how long I sat beside Dad’s grave, telling him all the things I wished we’d done and how much I was going to miss him, but the sun had set already, which meant I’d been here alone for at least five hours.

The cemetery was empty now. Only the sound of the evening breeze rustling the trees and the chirping of birds returning to their nests kept me company.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, I stared at the freshly turned soil. The air smelled of damp earth and dying flowers, and a hollow ache settled in my chest. Everyone had left except me and him.

I could leave, but he was stuck here forever.

As much as I wished I could remain here with him, I couldn’t. He wouldn’t want me to put my life on hold; he’d want me to be strong and achieve my dreams, and I was going to do just that.

The only problem was that I knew his killers were out there, roaming freely. The police had not yet found a single clue about who killed him and why, and I realized I would never fully find peace if no one was punished for this.

Sighing, I rose to my feet and smoothed out the black dress that was supposed to be for our date, and then I smiled at my dad’s grave. On his gravestone, I had them carve, Here lies Peter Rae, a loving father and a mobster with a good heart. He’d laugh if he were here to see it.

“Rest well, Dad. I hope the ground isn’t too cold and lonely.” I ran a hand over the tombstone, smiling through tears. “I’ll come by whenever I can.”

I blew a kiss to him and turned around to leave but stopped when I felt the hair on the back of my neck rising. It was the same sensation I’d gotten earlier today, as if someone was watching me.

And I was right; someone was.

From a distance, I recognized the icy, piercing blue eyes, that strong jaw, and those broad shoulders. It was the same man from the funeral—one of the men from the Bratva.

Had he been waiting for me the entire time? If so, why?

It didn’t matter. Dad was dead now, and it was better not to get involved with men like him.

I looked away and began walking toward the gate of the cemetery.

It wasn’t safe; I needed to leave.

He must’ve noticed me glancing at him because he started toward me. He was pretty composed, but his strides were so long that he was quickly catching up even when I hastened my steps.

My pulse quickened, my stomach churning with fear. What if…what if they were here to kill me, too?

God, why hadn’t I thought of that and left earlier with everyone else?

I had to run—fast.

But before I could start running, strong, warm hands wrapped around my wrist and tugged me around.

I threw my hands up, ready to defend myself, when I saw the smirk on his face—his very handsome face. Shit, this wasn’t the time to admire a dangerous man, but I swore he looked like he’d been sculpted from a special type of clay by God himself.

“Hello, Giselle,” he said in a deep, throaty voice that I would’ve absolutely fallen for if we’d met under different circumstances.

I swallowed, pushing down the lump in my throat. He had a sexy Russian accent that added to his charm. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, ignoring my question. There was no emotion in his voice. I would feel more sincerity from a robot than I would from this man.

All the rage from earlier came back. I wanted to yell, to scream and tell him this was all his fault— their fault. That my dad wouldn’t be six feet under if they didn’t turn him into a criminal.

I kept my composure and muttered a low, “Thank you.”

“I need to have a word with you,” he said calmly, like a predator luring his prey to their death. “I’d appreciate it if you could spare me a minute of your time.”

“Well, I don’t have a minute to spare.” I made to leave, but he didn’t let go.

His smirk dropped, and his face hardened. “I wasn’t asking.” He sounded gravelly this time. “You’re the last person your father contacted before he died. What did he tell you?”

My blood turned to ice with fear, but I didn’t let him see it. Men like him were prone to feed on other people’s terror. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t one of those people who would cower under his scrutiny.

“Do you just go around asking people what their calls with their fathers are about?” I cocked a brow against my better judgment. “Do you also want to know everything my father and I ever talked about since I was a child?”

There was a flicker of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. “Be careful how you speak to me.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me like you did him?”

He scoffed. I could see the way the fading sunlight cast shadows against the sharp edges of his face. “I did not kill your father, but he took something that belongs to the Bratva.”

My stomach twisted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His jaw ticked. “I need you to think before you answer my questions.”

Was he threatening me now?

I straightened my spine, lifting my chin. “Even if he did, what the hell makes you think I’ll tell you?”

“Because,” he said, his voice low, almost a warning, “this isn’t a game, solnishko . I do not have the time or patience to play with you.”

I froze at the nickname. The Russian endearment felt foreign on his lips, foreign and taunting, like he knew something I didn’t.

“I have nothing to say to you,” I snapped, trying to yank my arm back. His grip tightened just enough to remind me that he was stronger, that he was in control.

I glared at him, my heart throbbing wildly against my ribcage. He stared right back with an unreadable yet dark expression on his face.

Suddenly, the evening wind got heavier, and the air around us grew thick with tension. I knew right then and there that I should’ve chosen my words very carefully.

I was alone here, which meant he could kill me and bury me alongside my father, and nothing would happen. No one would even know where I was or who did it. Dad was gone, but I had Mom to live for. I didn’t think she would survive it if anything happened to me, too, but I wasn’t going to back down either.

Whimpering at the thought of what this crazy man could do to me, I lowered my gaze to my hand. His fist was still wrapped tightly around my wrist, and it hurt like crazy.

As if realizing for the first time that he was hurting me, his gaze flickered downward, and his grip loosened.

My wrist was red where he had held me. A flash of something I couldn’t wrap my head around crossed his face. Was it guilt? Annoyance?

It was gone before I could place it.

He released me. “You should watch your back, solnishko .”

I held his gaze for a second longer before stepping back. “And you should stay the hell away from me.”

Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving him standing there in the fading light, watching me.