Chapter 122 – Daphne POV
I watch sleek black car after black car pull away from the cathedral in waves—like waves at a wake, each carrying whispers, fake condolences, and at least three plots for power.
This is, by far, the most dramatic funeral I've ever been to.
Not that I've attended many.
But still.
The Castellanos, in all their operatic glory, have managed to turn grief into theater.
Finally, the main procession thins. Close relatives have had their moments. One by one, the true family—bloodline only—go in for what tradition dictates is their last private moment with the Don.
A whisper goodbye, an unspoken plea, a final threat. The usual.
I watch from my place beneath the arch, letting each of them pass.
The outer circle goes first—politicians, allies, ancient family friends who still send Christmas cigars from prison. Then the inner circle: close relatives, minor branches of the family, people who pretended they mattered to Valentino in life.
