We didn't have a body to bury. The Atlantic Ocean claimed Rook, just as it had claimed Vittorio and the Warlord.
But we buried a casket anyway.
It was placed in the family plot on the Vance Estate, under an old oak tree that overlooked the cliffs. Inside the mahogany box lay his tactical vest, his rifle, and a bottle of his favorite cheap whiskey.
It was a cold, gray morning. The rain held off, but the mist clung to the grass like a ghost.
The turnout was shocking.
I expected just us—the survivors. But the driveway was lined with black SUVs.
Don Ricci was there, his head bandaged, standing solemnly with his hat in his hand. Don Salvatore stood leaning on his cane, flanked by the Syndicate Council. Even Sienna, wearing a black veil and looking uncharacteristically pale, stood by the grave.
