Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter 58

Two weeks later

"He was a good man, a true friend. He cherished those around him and..."

Jemima let out a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes behind the dark sunglasses that shielded her from prying eyes. A guard stood close by, holding a black umbrella over her, casting a shadow that matched her somber mood. Clad in an all-black ensemble—sleek leather pants and a daring net shirt—she exuded an air of defiance, her hair pulled back into a polished bun that spoke of her no-nonsense attitude.

With each passing moment, her weariness became more palpable, a weight pressing down on her chest. Soon, she would be called to deliver a speech, a task she dreaded more than anything else. Mafia burial ceremonies felt less like tributes and more like torturous rituals—long, excruciating, and vain. Why carry on with such futility? The deceased was gone, oblivious to the performance around them. When she died, she envisioned a different farewell: cremation, her ashes scattered into the river, free and unencumbered.

Standing between Alan and Jon, her steadfast pillars of support, Jemima's mind drifted back to that fateful day in the hospital, two weeks ago, when she had made the outrageous suggestion to use Marcus's heart for the transplant.

Two weeks earlier...

"Give Jon Marcus's heart."

The words hung in the air, shocking the room into silence. All eyes turned to her, disbelief etched on their faces as they processed her bold declaration.

"Jem, are you sure about this?" Vanessa's voice broke the tension as she stepped closer, her hand resting gently on Jemima's shoulder. But Jemima's gaze was locked on Alan, a silent conversation passing between them, unspoken yet heavy with meaning.

In the corner, Jay stood with his arms crossed, watching the drama unfold. A surge of love for Jemima welled up within him, though he maintained a stoic facade, unwilling to reveal the turmoil beneath.

"It's not that simple, Jemima. We'd need to run tests and sign a mountain of paperwork. Besides these things don't just..."

"Then get on with it; we have no time to waste," Jemima interjected, her voice sharp and commanding, propelling the doctor into action. Her gaze remained fixed on Alan, a silent connection that pulsed with unspoken emotions. As if on cue, the room gradually emptied, leaving just the two of them, enveloped in an atmosphere thick with tension.

Their eyes locked, and an electric current of unrequited love and lingering affection crackled between them, filling the space with an intensity that felt almost tangible.

"Oh, Jem!" Alan whispered, breaking the silence like a fragile glass shattering. He stepped closer, wrapping her in a warm embrace that felt like a lifeline. Jemima closed her eyes, her heart slowing as she rested her head against his chest, finding solace in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Alan's quiet sobs echoed in the stillness, his tears soaking into the fabric of her shirt as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. In that moment, Jemima allowed her tears to spill, a release of the pent-up emotion she had fought to contain.

"Thank you so much, Jem! Thank you!" Alan murmured repeatedly, unafraid to lay bare his vulnerability.

"Jon saved me all those years ago. He rescued me from myself and the darkness of the world. He's the reason I stand here today, the reason I found you—a new family. You both gave me hope and though I don't say it often, I am eternally grateful for that," Jemima replied, her voice trembling as tears glimmered in her eyes, reflecting the depth of her gratitude.

Just then, two nurses entered, their presence a stark reminder of the reality they faced as they prepared to carry Marcus away for surgery. Jemima felt a lump rise in her throat, and Alan noticed the way her gaze lingered on Marcus's lifeless body, the weight of loss settling heavily upon her.

"You are the bravest person I know, Jem. Your selflessness is a light in this darkness, even if you don't see it," Alan said softly, guiding her to the bed where Marcus had once lain. They held each other tightly, unwilling to let go, as the memories of her last moments with him swirled around them, a bittersweet reminder of the bond they shared.

Alan sensed Jemima's reluctance to leave the room that Marcus had once filled. She lingered there, lost in the echoes of their last shared moments, while he felt an undeniable pull to remain close to someone who understood the depths of loss. Their shared trauma wrapped around them like a comforting shroud, a silent bond that needed no words as they found solace in the stillness of the room.

After what felt like an eternity, a grueling nine hours of uncertainty, the door swung open, and the doctor emerged, his expression heavy with the weight of the news. Alan's heart raced, each beat echoing the anxiety that gripped him.

"Alan, Jem. The surgery was a success!" The doctor declared, and in an instant, joy erupted within Alan. He leaped forward, enveloping Jemima in a fierce embrace, his whispered gratitude spilling out like a flood of relief.

As he released her, he turned to engage the doctor in a whirlwind of questions, but Jemima slipped away unnoticed, drawn by an invisible thread toward the operating theater. There, she stood before Marcus, his lifeless form stark against the sterile backdrop, a tragic reminder of mortality. The man who had once been the most revered godfather now lay reduced to a mere shell, and in that moment, the vanity of wealth struck her like a thunderbolt.

A choked sob escaped her lips, and a solitary tear traced a path down her cheek.

"He loved you, you know?" Jay's voice broke through her despair, startling her. She quickly wiped her tears, pretending they hadn't betrayed her.

"He wanted me to give you this, to let you know that he would always be with you," Jay continued, extending a delicate sea-shelled necklace towards her.

At that moment, Jemima's fingers closed around the necklace, a cherished artifact from their childhood. It was the very piece she had crafted for Marcus during one of their carefree days at the beach- when they were much younger, a reminder of innocence and joy now overshadowed by grief. The weight of the necklace in her hand felt like a link to the past, a bittersweet connection to the love and memory they had shared.

Present day

"You're up," Jon whispered into Jemima's ear, pulling her abruptly from the depths of her reverie. The cameras zoomed in, their relentless gaze making her pulse quicken as she fought the urge to flee from the scene.

With a deep breath, she stepped forward, each movement deliberate as she made her way to the pulpit. Her heart raced, and a tremor coursed through her hands, prompting her to shove them deep into her pockets. She leaned into the microphone, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

"Death..." Jemima began, her voice faltering as uncertainty washed over her. What was she truly going to say?

"It's ironic," she thought, her mind racing, "that we have over five thousand people gathered here today and more than a million watching online, yet not a single soul in this crowd could save my brother..." The thought simmered within her, but she swallowed it down- refusing to voice it out. It sounded vindictive; Anger and bitterness were not the emotions she wished to convey.

As her gaze swept across the audience, it landed on Jay, and a flicker of warmth ignited within her, prompting a small, genuine smile to break through her facade.

"Death is a vast concept—abstract to those affected by its cold grasp and feared by all who live. I know I'm expected to speak of the deceased, but what good would that do? I could stand here recounting the accolades of Marcus Lucianus Valerian, detailing his conquests, like the time he single-handedly took down a notorious group of Syrian killers. I could paint a picture of his ruthlessness—how people bowed before him, how his very words could seal a fate. He wielded life and death like a maestro conducting an orchestra. He was dutiful, loyal to a fault; I could go on and on about that. But today, I refuse to bore you with tales of a man who is no longer here. Instead, my words are directed at you, the living..."

Jemima paused, the warm afternoon breeze wrapping around her like a cloak as she surveyed the sea of faces before her, each one a reminder of the life that continued beyond her loss.

“While we engage in our lives as Mafians and assassins, I ask you—do you truly believe it's worth the cost? Must you wait for death's cold embrace before you're acknowledged? Have you ever paused to recognize your worth amidst the chaos? Many of you are here, not out of loyalty to me or to Marcus, but to witness the unfolding drama. Some harbor personal grudges against Marcus or me, yet here you stand, eager for a reaction, a flicker of vulnerability that might just be the spark you need to extinguish me. This isn't a threat—it's a warning: I am still SK.”

Jemima concluded, and the crowd erupted into a thunderous applause, a wave of energy surging through the air. She had much more to say, but that was for another time. What she had just executed was a masterful power play—a strategic chess move in a game far larger than any of them realized.

This was her subtle declaration of ambition, a hint that she aspired to become the Godfather.