Chapter 11: The Funeral Pyre

The rain fell in thick sheets, turning the city into a blur of gray and shadows.

It drummed against the pavement, soaking through Dom Ricci's threadbare coat, the cold seeping into his bones.

But he barely noticed. He stood across the street, hidden in the alcove of an abandoned storefront, watching his own funeral unfold.

The church was grand, chosen not for sentiment but for spectacle—Vinnie's way of making a statement.

The Ricci name had commanded power here once, but now the steps were lined with Vinnie's men, standing guard like vultures over a fresh corpse.

A massive photo of Dom, smiling and powerful, stood near the entrance. 

The king is dead.

Dom exhaled slowly, letting the words settle in his chest.

This wasn't just a ceremony—it was a declaration. Vinnie was rewriting history, burying the past so he could build his future on its ashes.

And as much as Dom wanted to storm out and confront him, he knew better. Timing was everything. Revenge required patience.

He watched as the mourners gathered beneath black umbrellas, their faces half-hidden by shadow and rain.

Some looked genuinely grief-stricken. Others—politicians, business associates, old allies—kept their expressions neutral, calculating.

They were already moving on, aligning themselves with the new order. 

Dom scanned the crowd, searching for the faces that mattered most. 

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Izzy stood near the front, her face hidden beneath a veil. Even in mourning, she was composed, controlled.

Her posture spoke volumes—a woman who refused to let emotion cloud her judgment.

But Dom had known her too long to miss the small details. 

The way she clutched her gloves too tightly, knuckles white. 

The way her shoulders stiffened when the priest spoke his name. 

Was it grief? Regret? Or just the final act of letting go? 

Dom frowned, studying her from afar. She hadn't come here to mourn; she'd come to observe.

To gauge the landscape without revealing her hand.

That made her dangerous—not because she might betray him, but because she saw things others didn't.

If anyone could piece together the truth, it would be Izzy. 

For a moment, their eyes met across the crowd. Hers were sharp, unreadable. Did she know? Could she see through the charade? 

Dom turned away before she could hold his gaze any longer. 

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Then he saw Marco. 

The big man looked like a wreck, his suit disheveled, his face pale.

He stumbled slightly as he walked past the casket, his usual swagger replaced by something brittle.

When he reached Dom's photo, he stopped, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the glass. 

His shoulders shook. 

Dom swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his gut. 

*I did this to him.* 

Marco had been many things—reckless, violent, broken—but he had never been this.

Dom had dragged him down with him, and now he was watching his best friend mourn him like a brother lost. 

Marco pressed his palm flat against the photo, whispering something Dom couldn't hear.

Then he stepped back, head bowed, retreating into the crowd.

Watching him disappear, Dom felt a pang of regret so sharp it stole his breath. He owed Marco more than words or apologies—he owed him redemption. 

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Next, Dom's eyes landed on Lucky. 

The kid stood further back, dressed in sharp black, watching everything with sharp, hungry eyes. He wasn't grieving. He was studying. Calculating. Trying to find his place in this new world. 

Vinnie's world. 

Dom's jaw clenched involuntarily. Not yet, kid. Not yet. 

Lucky represented the next generation—the ones who idolized Dom but didn't fully understand the weight of his legacy.

Would the boy follow Vinnie blindly, or would he seek his own path? Either way, Lucky was learning quickly, absorbing every detail of this performance. 

And performances were all this was—a show designed to cement Vinnie's power. 

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The funeral mass began. The priest spoke in even, practiced tones about Dom's "legacy," carefully skirting around the bodies left in his wake.

Dom wanted to laugh at the hypocrisy of it all—I fed half the men in this room, and the other half tried to kill me. 

But laughter felt wrong here. 

Instead, he focused on the undertones. Every word the priest said carried weight, even if none of it was true.

The mourners nodded solemnly, pretending to believe. Pretending to care. 

Pretenses. Masks. Lies. 

It was fitting, really. In death, Dom was still surrounded by them. 

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Then the coffin was carried out. 

A sudden gust of wind ripped through the crowd, tearing umbrellas from hands, scattering them into the rain.

For the first time, the mourners were exposed—no longer hidden behind veils and shadows. 

That's when Dom saw him. 

Vinnie. 

Standing near the church steps, wearing a black suit that fit like a second skin, his expression perfectly composed.

To anyone else, he looked like a grieving friend. But Dom saw through the performance. 

The rigid jaw. The subtle shift of his stance. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, searching. 

Looking for him. 

For one brief second, their gazes met. 

The world slowed. 

Vinnie's face remained neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes. A flash of uncertainty. A whisper of doubt. 

Does he know? 

Dom pulled his fedora lower, stepping back into the shadows. The moment passed. The crowd moved. The ceremony continued. 

But Vinnie kept searching. 

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As the procession began, the rain seemed to intensify, washing over the cobblestones, drenching the flowers, drowning the speeches. Dom turned and walked away, his footsteps swallowed by the storm. 

He glanced back only once, at the casket, at the people mourning a man who no longer existed. His old life was gone—the empire, the respect, the certainty. All of it erased by betrayal and ambition. 

Yet, as the rain washed over him, cold and relentless, Dom realized something important. 

This wasn't the end. 

It was the beginning. 

The funeral pyre wasn't just burning his past—it was fueling his future. 

Dom lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the rain-soaked air. He thought about what Vinnie had built—a house of cards propped up by fear and opportunism. It wouldn't last. No empire built on lies ever did. 

And when it fell, Dom would be waiting. 

Not just as a king. 

As the thing kings feared. 

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Outside the church, the city stretched before him, alive with noise and chaos.

Somewhere out there, Vinnie was celebrating his victory, consolidating his power, believing himself untouchable. 

But Dom knew better. 

Power wasn't permanent. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed. And revenge… revenge was personal. 

He slipped into the shadows, disappearing into the labyrinth of streets.

Behind him, the funeral continued, the mourners returning to their lives, their loyalties shifting like sand in the wind. 

Dom smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. 

Let them mourn. Let them grieve. Let them think he was gone. 

Because Dom Ricci wasn't done yet. 

Far from it.