88 Funeral

**Date = 4 August**
**Place = San Francisco (Black Pit - family graveyard)**

**POV - Enrique**

Aria’s voice sounds up, thin but strong. “I don’t think she’d want us to be sad, you know. Kiara.”

I swallow hard. My throat burns. “She’d want a fight. A scene. A hell of a lot of noise. She’d want us to get the bastards who did this to her.”

“We will.” A small smile tugs at Aria’s lips, though her eyes are wet.

“I’m gonna miss her,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I say. My chest tightens. “Me too.”

We reach the edge, and the little cemetery comes into full view. The wrought-iron gate, small and simple, stands half-open. Inside, headstones are planted in neat rows beneath the shade of cypress trees, their roots curling through the earth like old scars. The grass is trimmed, the lavender is blooming, and the paths are lined with soft, white sand.

And at the center, waiting, is the raw wound of a grave not yet filled. The earth is fresh, black, and raw — carved open just for her.

A small cluster of mourners stands scattered among the trees, black clothes stark against the moss and stone. The air feels heavy here, different — quieter, as though even the breeze has been swallowed by sorrow.

Aria’s fingers trace the edge of a weathered headstone, her voice dropping into a hush, as if she doesn’t even want the dead to overhear.

“Mel told me Lori’s here too. With her grandfather, Derick.” She swallows. “And Luke’s mom. Lili’s grandmother. All of them … right here.”

I let out a breath through my nose, more weary than surprised. “Yeah. This ground’s been swallowing our people for years.” And it probably will for generations.

I shift my gaze across the slope, eyes narrowing on the line of stone markers scattered like crooked teeth.

My tone hardens, but there’s almost admiration buried in it — like I can’t help but acknowledge the sheer audacity. “Alexander, Derick, George — they bought up thirty thousand hectares. Together.” The biggest private grab in the county back then. They carved it like a pie. Derick took five thousand. George, another five. Alexander, greedy bastard, kept the rest.

Aria looks up, brows raised. “That much?”

“Mm.” I point to the north. “That is the Grimm’s land.” Then East. Inland. “That’s Garcia’s.” Apparently, George didn’t like the ocean.

I gesture loosely to the ground beneath us, the trees standing guard at the edges of the cemetery. “Right here’s where their borders meet. Neutral ground, if you can call it that. Belonged to all three. So, of course, they dumped their dead here.”

The very first grave was Derick — heart attack … then our Grandma Leanne — strangled by her psycho husband.

“Well, it is beautiful here,” Aria says softly, her eyes drifting over the rows of headstones half-hidden by wildflowers. The air smells of lavender and sun-warmed stone, the kind of peace that seeps under your skin whether you want it or not. “Peaceful. Perfect. I wish we had a family cemetery like this — a real resting place.”

She pauses, a small, wistful smile tugging at her mouth. “My parents’ ashes are still in pots.”

I glance at her, not sure I heard right. “They’re not buried?”

Her laugh is small and brittle. “When you’re an orphan, you don’t get to put your people in the ground. The state burns them, puts what’s left in a pot, and stamps a label on it. We couldn’t afford a plot, so we stashed our pots in a safety deposit box. My parents, Jesse’s, Alejandro’s … all side by side. Like a tiny ceramic family reunion.”

The image punches a hole right through my chest. I want to say something — anything — but nothing feels right. My mouth opens, then closes again. I end up biting down on the inside of my cheek instead, eyes drifting to the graves ahead.

And right then, an idea takes root in the back of my mind — quiet, stubborn, inevitable. A way to give her what she never had. A place to belong. A place for her family to rest.

A sound groans through the trees, wooden wheels rolling over uneven ground. Mixed with the slow iron clink of harness chains. A soft neigh of a horse. The muffled beats of hoofs striking the mossy earth grow louder, like muted drums in a church band.

Basil is bruised, giving off a green, peppery tang.

A Frisian, massive, elegant, and black as midnight, steps into view, pulling the open carriage. The coffin sits upon it, dark wood polished to a mirror, cruelly small against the weight of the horse that bears it.

What is it with my family and their steeds? Am I the only one who doesn’t like these beasts? Who sees through their warm-eyed facades?

Uncle John pulls the reins, and the horse comes to a slow stop.

We move forward — Logan, Damion, Axel, and me. Her adopted family. The absence of Ilkay and Jackson hangs sharp in the air, though no one dares name it.

Ilkay is on a rescue mission, deep in the Alps. On foot. Searching for the lost. Cut off from the outside world. We got word to him … but no word from him back. However, Uncle John made sure to tape the event for him to watch.

Jackson is where he’s been since the hit-and-run — at the hospital — guarding. Brooding. Planning.

Together we take the handles, lift Kiara’s casket from the carriage, and carry it the last few steps to the waiting grave. Not a word passes between us.

Birdsong drifts through the redwoods above, soft and clear. It’s beautiful. Like a sweet, melancholic lullaby written for her last nap — gentle, final, sorrowful. My shoulders ache under the weight, but it is the grief that bends me. Every step feels like it hammers in the truth — she is gone, and this is all we can do for her now.

I never thought I’d stand here, looking at a coffin of a loved one this soon again. Only months ago, we laid my father to rest here.

Maybe the next time I’m here, I will be the one being lowered into the ground. Or Aria.

That thought stops my heart.

We stand in a tight circle around the grave, the mid-morning wind cutting sharp across the hill, tugging at ties and dresses, carrying the smell of damp soil and roses. The priest’s voice trembles above us, hard against the fragile groan of the trees, but I barely hear him. My eyes stay on the coffin suspended above the hole, white roses sliding off its polished lid as if they can’t hold on.

Kiara. Twenty years old. Mel’s best friend. Our cousin in every way that mattered. Uncle John’s daughter by choice, by love, not by blood. The girl who had woven herself into every part of us and made us hers.

And now all we have left is this box and a future stone with her name on it.

Uncle John’s shoulders shake, his hands clenching at his sides as though he can hold himself together by sheer force. Beside him, shackled in grief deeper than any prison, William Smith — Kiara’s father. Someone pulled some strings. Had him freed for this day — a tracker on his ankle, a marshal in the shadows. But he’s here, paying his last respects to a daughter he had to hand over to his best friend.

A father who went to jail, a hitman who murdered for the men who plucked him from the street. One of the trusted few who did all of the dark, dirty stuff that Alexander and George didn’t want to bloody their hands with.

He weeps harder than John, ragged sobs tearing out of him like he is being gutted, his knees almost giving way. No one touches him. No one dares. The sound of his grief is too raw, too unbearable, too real.

Mel sways near the grave, her belly pressed tight beneath her dress, her hand gripping Damion’s arm as though she might collapse into the dirt with Kiara.

River looks smaller than usual — like someone took the spark right out of her and left the shell standing there in borrowed black.

Beside her, Lili’s tears come quieter, gentler — the kind that shimmer instead of fall. She keeps her hand in River’s the whole time, squeezing whenever River’s chin starts to wobble. Her little black dress is too big at the shoulders, sliding down like it’s trying to swallow her. Someone pinned a tiny white flower in her hair, and it’s already half wilted from the heat.

Luke stands behind them, stiff-backed and solemn in a button-up shirt that still has the fold lines in it. His jaw’s tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, like he’s trying to be the adult he thinks the girls need. Every now and then, he reaches out — a hand on River’s shoulder, a quiet nudge when she trembles — and she lets him, though she doesn’t look at him.

When the wind moves through the trees, all three of them look up at once — like maybe they’re hoping whoever’s gone is still listening.

The priest’s voice falters at the sudden clatter of hooves on stone.

For a moment, it feels like the devil himself is riding in to take care of business. Hooves strike sparks on the cobblestone road, nostrils flare, eyes rolling white, like something possessed. The black stallion slides to a halt and rears at the gate. Jackson slips down from the saddle without a word, reins dropped, and strides up as if he is a shadow cut loose from the world.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t join the circle. He walks straight to the coffin, every step slow, deliberate, weighted with something no one else can carry. When he reaches it, he lays his hand flat on the polished wood, fingers splayed wide, his head bowed. His lips move — words meant for Kiara only — words no one will ever hear.

The first ropes tighten and begin their slow surrender, lowering her into the earth. The creak of them is unbearable — like the earth itself is protesting. White roses tumble after her, one by one, sinking into the silence of the grave to keep her company.

Her favorite flowers. I didn’t know until now.

I need to find out all Aria’s favorite things … before it’s too late.

The priest drones on, talking about eternal rest and heavenly peace, but the words are swallowed by the scrape of shovels and the hiss of the wind.

None of it fits Kiara in any way.

None of it explains how a girl with so much fire can be stolen in the chaos of a hit-and-run trap.

Mathias had chased the car, but it was never meant to be caught. They were ready to ambush whomever followed. Trucks had blocked our guards in, shooting at them, while the real killers slipped away, leaving Kiara’s blood on the street.

I saw it. The blood. We all did. We drove past the scene on our way to the hospital that day. To make it real.

That picture will not leave me. Not then. Not ever.

Police were taking photos of every piece of clothing that lay scattered on the road. Every piece of jewelry. Every shard of glass. Every drop of blood.

Trixy’s was closed. Doors shut as if trying to keep out the horror.

We didn’t get out. Just sat in the car outside the yellow crime-scene-barrier-tape looking. Letting it sink in.

My heart stopped. Aria was in that mess. The car missed her by inches. Missed Mel. Ava. And Haley. But hit Lee … Kiara.

Uncle John breaks, the sound tearing out of him — half roar, half sob — as he stumbles forward, reaching out as if he can still snatch her back. Logan and Axel catch him under the arms, holding him upright, though his knees sag and his whole frame collapses under grief.

Her father drops outright, crumpling onto the grass. His fists claw at the soil, digging up clumps with his fingers, his face pressing into the earth as if he can bury himself with her. His wail rips through the air, so sharp it makes my teeth ache.

I dig my nails into my palms, staring until the coffin disappears into the dark. Dirt follows — clumps raining down, dull and final. The sound of it thudding against the lid is the worst thing to hear at every funeral.

Aria clings to my arm like a lost little monkey. I don’t know if I am holding her up or if she’s holding me, but either way, I am glad she’s here.

Jackson mumbles something to Marco, and the three guards take the children and lead them away. They stroll slowly through the trees, leaving the grief behind.

My twin glares at the grave one last time, and then he turns and walks away, down to the gate to his waiting horse, back to the hospital, leaving us stranded in the storm of grief.

Too strong to crumble, too broken to stay.

But I know he’s not done. He’s taking this attack personally.

We all are.

But him more. They touched his heart.

And when this cloud of sadness lifts … a war is going to start. And Graham and Cindy and whoever else responsible, better be ready. Knowing Jackson, they’re going to burn in hell for hurting his soul.

Aria presses herself into me, so close that a button from her dress digs hard into my ribs. It hurts, but I don’t shift an inch, loving the pain. I can feel her trembling, every shiver running through me like an echo. I don’t dare look down. I don’t want to see her face wet with tears. If I see that, I’ll break. All I want is to escape — the air here is too thick, grief pressing in like smoke. It’s smothering me.

But I stay. I always stay to the end.

Mel screams and doubles over. Damion catches her, bracing her weight. Her skin has gone pale … well, paler. Her breaths are shallow. Too shallow. She clutches her stomach and hisses in a sharp gasp.

A ripple of panic runs through the crowd — whispers, gasps rising like a wave. I freeze on the spot. We can’t lose another one. None of us can.

Deimos is already there, steady as stone. He murmurs low in Damion’s ear. A moment later, Damion scoops her into his arms and carries her away.

Probably false contractions, Deimos says. Stress. Grief. The body’s rebellion against the unbearable. Probably.

But I see the fear in Damion’s eyes before they disappear into the trees towards the car waiting in the shade, and it twists me so deep in the gut I think I might vomit into the grass.

I don’t. Like my tears, I’ve learned to keep it in.

But William Smith is still crouched beside the fresh grave, weeping — a huge man, muscles like stone, skin dark and gleaming with sweat. Faded tattoos crawl up his neck and arms, prison ink marking years of survival. His face is hard, carved by time and pain, but now it’s stripped bare — all that strength collapsing as his hands press into the dirt, like he’s trying to hold his world together.

There is something weird about a man like that crying. Something wrong. It is as if the man who sired John Wayne Gacy suddenly bursts into tears of regret and guilt.

It doesn’t fit.

I look around at the crowd full of red-eyed adults. Crying for the loss of a young one.

It just doesn’t fit.

And as I look around, I realize … the stones scattered through the grass, each one a marker for someone who should still be alive. Except for Derick and Sophia — not one of the others is taken by time, or illness, or even chance. Every single one ripped out of life by violence.

So again … it doesn’t fit. None of it is right. Not the stones. Not the grief. Not the tears of men who never cry.

I stare at the mound, at the uneven earth that now holds another name, another piece of us. Covered in ground.

One by one, people drift away. Voices fade. Even the birds fall quiet, as if the air itself knows better than to disturb what sleeps here.

And I feel it — that same old shiver beneath my skin. The same one that’s haunted every Blackburn funeral I’ve stood through.

Logan puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers gruffly — his throat cloaked with swallowed tears — the same as when we were kids, when we were locked up.

“The curse is real,” he says. “He wasn’t bluffing.”