Page 3 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

I always thought Dante would be the one to bury me, not the other way around.

The thought sits heavy in my chest as I stare out the windows of my study, watching rain streak down the glass. The Moretti estate stretches before me—seventy acres of grounds, marble fountains, tight security. This was supposed to be his someday.

Now he’s the one in a coffin—well, technically not. His body was never found.

“Boss?”

I turn from the window to find Benedetto Marconi standing in the doorway, his weathered face grave. My consigliere for twenty years, the only man I trust completely.

We’ve been through everything together—wars with rival families, federal investigations, the four years we spent in Italy handling the European operations.

The old country business required a delicate touch, connections that took decades to build and maintain.

Benedetto was the only one I trusted to manage that expansion alongside me.

For nearly four years, we lived between Naples and Sicily, strengthening alliances with the old families while Dante ran the American territories.

It was profitable work, but isolating—months away from New York, from the empire we’d built here.

Benedetto never complained, even when it meant missing his grandchildren’s birthdays, even when the weight of managing two continents wore us both thin.

Behind him, the formal dining room is filled with the usual suspects—family members, captains, soldiers, all dressed in their finest black suits.

“Come in, Benedetto.”

He crosses the Persian rug, his footsteps muffled by centuries of craftsmanship.

The study is my sanctuary—dark mahogany shelves lined with first editions, Italian marble, crystal decanters filled with whiskey older than most of these men.

Oil paintings of my ancestors watch from gilded frames, men who built this empire with blood and bullets.

“The arrangements are finalized,” Benedetto says, settling into the leather chair across from my desk. “St. Michael’s Cathedral tomorrow at two. Father Romano will officiate.”

I pour two glasses of Macallan, the amber liquid catching the lamplight. “How many are expected?”

“Two hundred, maybe more. The Torrino family confirmed. The Benedettis are flying in from Chicago. Even the Russians are sending representation.”

Of course they are. Dante’s death created a power vacuum, and every family within a thousand miles wants to see how we’ll fill it.

“What about the girl?”

Benedetto’s expression darkens. “Still nothing concrete.

Apparently, Dante had a whole fiancée for two years who I didn’t know about.

I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my chest. Kasimira Vale.

We’ve pieced together the basics in the weeks since Dante’s death—his household staff knew her well enough, the security team remembered her routines.

A few of Dante’s men had seen her around, though none of them interacted with her directly.

“So we’ve got nothing on her? The funeral is tomorrow, and I need answers.”

“I got a call an hour ago,” he admits. “But it’s unconfirmed. Tony Marconi thinks he spotted someone matching her description in a small town upstate. Rosehill. Population five thousand.”

“How sure is he?”

“Sixty percent. Maybe seventy. The girl he saw was working at a bakery, paying rent in cash, keeping her head down. Could be our Kasimira.”

I set down my glass. “Send someone to confirm after the funeral. If she was with Dante for two years, she might know something about his business, his movements before the crash.”

A knock at the door interrupts us. Michael Torrino enters without waiting for permission, followed by his eldest son, Tony, and my nephew, Paolo. The younger generation, hungry for advancement now that Dante’s gone.

“Uncle Alaric.” Paolo’s voice is carefully neutral. “We wanted to discuss security arrangements for tomorrow.”

“Sit.”

They arrange themselves in the remaining chairs while Benedetto pours fresh drinks. Paolo has his mother’s refined features but his father’s ruthless ambition. He’s smart, careful, nothing like the hot-headed boy Dante was.

“The cathedral will be secured by our people,” Tony reports. “Father Romano has agreed to additional screening. No weapons past the vestibule except for family.”

“What about the cemetery?”

“Perimeter teams, snipers on the surrounding buildings, decoy routes for the procession.” Paolo’s planning is thorough. “If anyone’s planning to make a move, they’ll have limited opportunities.”

I nod approval. “What about Luca? I haven’t seen him since I got back from Italy.”

Paolo’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. “He’s still in Los Angeles, wrapping up the West Coast operations. Sends his regrets about missing the funeral, but there were some urgent contracts that needed his attention.”

Luca Moretti, Dante’s cousin. Another disappointment, though for different reasons than my son. Where Dante was unpredictable, Luca is weak, too concerned with profit margins to understand what leadership really means.

“Tell him to pay his respects when he returns.”

“Of course.”

The conversation shifts to business matters that require attention, contracts that need oversight, and the thousand details that keep an empire running smoothly.

By ten o’clock, the dining room has cleared except for Benedetto and immediate family.

A new arrival makes everyone look up. David Roth, the family lawyer, stands in the doorway—a tall, confident man in an expensive suit who’s handled Moretti legal affairs for fifteen years. He commands respect in courtrooms and boardrooms alike.

“Mr. Moretti,” David says, crossing the room with measured steps. “My condolences for your loss. Dante was a remarkable young man.”

“Thank you, David.”

“There’s something I need to discuss with you before tomorrow’s service.” His voice is professional, controlled. “Dante left a will.”

The room goes silent. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock seems louder.

“A will?” Paolo’s voice carries surprise. “He never mentioned?—”

“He had it drafted six months ago,” David continues, his briefcase at his side like he’s prepared for business. “Very specific instructions. The reading is to take place after the funeral, but only if particular people are present.”

“Who?”

“Kasimira Vale, his fiancée. And you, Mr. Moretti. No one else.”

I feel every eye in the room turn toward me. Benedetto’s jaw tightens—we just spent time discussing how to find this woman, and now she’s apparently essential to my son’s final wishes.

“What’s in the will, David?”

“I can’t discuss the contents until the formal reading.”

“We have a lead on Miss Vale,” I tell him. “I’ll have my men follow up during the funeral tomorrow.”

David nods. “Then we’ll proceed once she’s been located.”

St. Michael’s Cathedral is a monument to old money and older sins. Gothic spires spring toward heaven while the congregation below deals in decidedly earthier matters. I sit in the front pew, watching Father Romano speak about redemption and forgiveness as if any of us believe in such things.

He’s been the Moretti family’s priest for decades—on the payroll as much as the men who carry my guns. He baptizes our children, hears our confessions, prays for our dead, and turns a blind eye to the bodies we bury.

The closed coffin sits before the altar. Empty, of course. There wasn’t enough left of Dante to scoop, let alone a casket.

“We gather today to mourn the loss of a young man taken before his time,” Father Romano intones, his voice echoing off stone walls.

Behind me, two hundred people maintain the fiction of grief.

Rival families, soldiers, wives gossiping behind black veils about succession and power plays.

The Torrinos sit like vultures three rows back, the Benedettis whisper among themselves, and even the Russians—predictable as always—occupy their corner, their eyes already sizing up which of my holdings they might chip away at.

The eulogies speak of Dante’s brilliance, his promise, his bright future. All lies. Most of them feared him more than they respected him. And now that he’s dead, they’ll pretend sorrow while their attorneys sharpen contracts and their underbosses calculate advantage.

I can almost hear them thinking: Who controls the ports now? What about the Vegas contracts? Who steps into Dante’s chair?

The incense hangs thick in the air, mixing with the faint metallic scent of rain-soaked concrete drifting in through the cathedral doors. The stained glass windows cast fractured pools of crimson and gold across the polished marble, like pools of blood frozen in sunlight.

And through it all, that damn will gnaws at the edge of my mind. Whatever Dante signed six months ago—whatever trap he’s left me to untangle—it waits for me after this farce is done.

The service drags on—readings, hymns, empty platitudes. I let my mind wander to business matters, to what the hell Dante has in his will, and to the woman we need to find.

Finally, Father Romano raises his hands for the final blessing.

The procession to Holy Cross Cemetery moves like a black river through the streets of Oakmont. I ride in the lead car with Benedetto, watching people stop and stare as we pass.

Oakmont isn’t on any official ledger. Not for the family, at least. It’s never been part of our public face.

The old estate was acquired decades ago under shell companies—an hour north, tucked into the hills, far enough from the city to be forgotten by most. We don’t conduct business here.

Oakmont exists for two purposes only: private family matters and burial.

The cemetery spans fifty acres of rolling hills, with the Moretti plot situated on the highest point, offering a commanding view. Everything has been prepared perfectly—the grave, the chairs, the artificial grass covering the mound of dirt.

I take my position beside the grave as mourners arrange themselves in a semicircle. The afternoon sun breaks through clouds as Father Romano begins the committal service.

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…”

My hand closes around the handful of dirt beside the grave—a ritual gesture we perform whether we believe in it or not. The dry earth falls from my fingers onto the gleaming coffin, the sound of it soft but final.

A bitter irony, this moment.

His mother lies a few feet away, buried beneath the same soil. She abandoned Dante when he was just an infant—left him screaming in his crib and vanished into whatever empty life she chased. Five years later, she was found murdered in a motel, the result of debts she couldn’t pay.

I buried her here quietly, not out of obligation, but because part of me—some stupid, useless part—had once cared for her. I was so young, not even twenty when Dante was born, but I raised my son alone after that, made him into what he became.

Now, mother and son are reunited in death, even if they barely knew each other in life.

As Father Romano moves into the next prayer, I take the white linen cloth Benedetto offers and wipe the dust from my fingers.

It’s then that I let my gaze drift across the faces of those who’ve come to mourn—or to watch. Two hundred people gathered here. Power brokers. Rivals. Pretenders. Widows in black veils. Soldiers in tailored suits. Lawyers and politicians who owe me favors. The vultures have all come.

I scan them calmly from behind my dark glasses, my expression neutral as always. They don’t know I’m watching. They never do.

And then I see her.

Not in the crowd of mourners, but standing apart, beneath a large oak tree at the edge of the gathering.

She’s wearing a fitted black coat that flares slightly at the waist, heels that sink lightly into the grass, and dark sunglasses that nearly swallow her face. But I recognize her instantly.

The curve of her jaw. The slope of her neck. The smooth, pale skin exposed by the open neckline of her coat. And there, above her collarbone, the small, delicate snake tattoo.

Her.

The woman from the hotel room.

I know exactly what she looks like because I allowed myself the mistake of looking.

That night, while she slept tangled in my sheets, I turned on the bedside lamp and studied her face like a man committing treason.

The shape of her lips, the softness of her breathing, the faint scent of her skin still clinging to my fingers.

I told myself I needed to see her clearly, so I could forget her.

Because I had to forget her.

I never asked her name. Never allowed myself that indulgence. I’ve been taught my entire life that once you let a woman get inside your head, she will break you. And when you break, you lose everything.

That’s why I’ve stayed alive. That’s why, at forty-two, I remain in control while younger men rot beneath the dirt.

Seeing her now—here, at my son’s funeral—it unravels something deep inside me.

Why is she here? What is she doing at Dante’s grave?

Her presence feels like a question I’m not ready to answer.

I make no move. My face stays unreadable behind the glasses. If she sees me watching, she gives no indication. She stands perfectly still, as if willing herself invisible among the trees.

As Father Romano begins the final prayer, I see her shift. She takes one careful step backward, then another. Quiet, graceful, unnoticed by anyone else.

And then she turns, slipping away into the distance like a shadow dissolving into daylight.

I don’t follow.

I let her go.