Trapped in his End Game (Series)

How the hell did I get here?

I’m in a large, empty room that smells dusty. Faded purple carpet covers the floor and bland walls don’t really make me think of death so much as a nursing home stuck in the 80’s. Men in suits mingle in the room, clutching their styrofoam cups of coffee as my brother and I stand sentry near Dad’s casket.

Funeral homes never really made sense to me. Why am I paying for a giant, empty room with shabby decor reminiscent of a few decades ago? What’s with that, anyway? Why do they always look so dated? There’s nothing to do except talk, and if you get hungry, too bad. There’s only complimentary coffee, and the crappy kind that stays in those metal tubes for hours. And that’s not even in the room, probably because there’s some kind of ridiculous law forbidding the distribution of food in the same area as a dead person.

Dead person.

I can’t even bear to look at the solid form resting inside the white pillows. His face looks nothing like him, but at least there are photographs everywhere. Giant wreaths of flowers above his casket make my nose itch. Somehow, that makes me want to laugh.

What’s wrong with me?

Days ago, we were all working at the same job together. Dad was talking about making some renovations at the casino, which Nathan and I opposed because we were in the slow season. Jessica was doing whatever the hell she does all day at her apartment. I argued with my dad about something small, something stupid-how exactly to cook a perfect medium rare steak. Dad cooked them on the pan, when I liked to finish them in the oven. We had a big argument about it. Both of us are so goddamn stubborn. I know I got it from him. I’ve no idea what I got from Mom; she’s basically a stranger to me.

All of this runs through my mind, and I search frantically through it to grasp something that will make me say, “A-ha! This can’t be real!”

I’m not sad.

I’m in denial.

A man I have never seen before extends his arm to me as I stand beside my father’s open casket.

“So sorry for your loss,” he says.

I’ve heard at least a dozen different versions of this in the past few hours. The corners of my lips pull upwards painfully.

“Thank you for coming.”

Beside me, I hear Nathan uttering the same words as we greet business associate after business associate. Heat rises to my chest like tiny, hot needles pricking my sensitive skin.

I didn’t fucking want them here. Nathan and I argued about it.

“Some of them are shareholders in the company-members of the board! Are you fucking crazy? Do you know how insulting it would be if you told them they couldn’t come to the funeral?”

“I don’t care!” I screamed back. “I don’t want to turn Dad’s funeral into a schmooze fest. For fuck’s sake, it’s a private affair. They don’t need to come.”

We screamed at each other until we were hoarse. Finally, we came to a compromise. The burial would be private, with only family members and a select few others. Everyone else would be allowed to attend the wake and ceremony.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

So it’s two days of this.

Two days of standing up for hours in uncomfortable clothing and heels and pretending to care that the people who worked with Dad are at his wake, while they pretend to care about his death. They’re people whose names I forget almost the instant I shake their hands.

Dad wouldn’t want me to be like this. The casino was everything to him.

I swallow hard as a venerable man in slacks approaches. I recognize him as one of the board members of Worlds Casino. Mr. Blackwell’s lined face glances inside the coffin briefly and he pats the coffin.

“Poor Dominic,” he shakes his head sadly. “None of us saw this coming. I’m so sorry.”

I heave a long sigh. “It was very fast.”

His coarse hand doesn’t quite let go of mine. “This may have happened fast, but a few of us know who he wanted in control of the company. I just wanted to let you know that you’ll have full support of the board. Take your time and grieve, and it’ll be waiting for you.”

A slight shock runs through me as I look into his knowing eyes. What the hell does that mean? Nathan’s getting the company, isn’t he? I can only regard him in stunned silence as he smiles and nods, and then his hands slip from my fingers as he approaches Nathan.

I turn slightly, listening hard as he wrings Nathan’s hand, but he makes no other mention of my father’s business.

A stab of unease wrestles with the numbness inside me as I stare out into the crowd of murmuring people. I never actually seriously considered the possibility that I might inherit the majority of my father’s shares, and not Nathan. I always assumed it would be him. He was the oldest and the most capable of all three of us. Mr. Blackwell made it sound like I would be-

No.

I won’t think about that. Not now. My stomach turns as I glance towards my left, to the body resting beside me.

He’s not even buried yet. Shame on you.

It presses down on my chest and head, and I look around anxiously for a disapproving face as if someone nearby heard my thoughts.

A dark-haired man interrupts my train of thought. He wears a perfectly fitted inky-black suit, which compliments the olive tone of his skin. Suddenly I feel warm all over. I’m not sure why, but maybe it’s his high cheekbones and dark, melancholic eyes. He’s like a stereotype for tall, dark, and handsome. He hasn’t noticed me staring at him yet; he looks inside the coffin with both hands grasping the edge, his fingers white. The man finally turns towards me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks at me with little emotion. No, there’s a lot buried underneath that cool slate he tries to hide under. He keeps his limbs unnaturally still to keep them from shaking and his face stays blank, but anyone can see the deep sadness lurking in his eyes. The dark eyes swirl with it.

Jesus. He’s intense.

I hold out my hand first, genuinely curious about him already.

“Thank you for coming.”

His hand is pleasantly cool, but mine feels hot. It slips in his hand.

Crap. That’s embarrassing.

He blows a sigh through his nose. “I didn’t know your dad very well, but from what I heard, he was a real decent guy. I’m really sorry that you have to go through this.”

The intensity of his gaze makes me feel vulnerable. I can tell that he means it, that he knows what loss feels like. I’m slowly starting to feel it: the stomach dropping, red-eyed, gulping for breath sadness that eats you from the inside out. I feel smacked awake. The small amount of warmth he gives me eclipses everyone else’s shitty condolences and apologies, and my hand trembles inside his.

Keep it together. Don’t fall apart in his arms.

“I-thank you.”

“I’m Joe DiFiore.”

It echoes inside my head. It has a nice ring to it.

He squeezes my hand and then lets it fall gracefully to his side. I’m holding in my breath, still taken aback by everything about him. I’ve been around lots of men and it takes a lot to intimidate me, but I definitely feel like a girl standing next to him. He stands with a shameless confidence, like a man who knows exactly what he wants, and what he wants is to get the hell away from the coffin.

That much is clear.

“You worked with my dad?”

“Yeah. Not directly, but I’m with Black Diamond Entertainment.” Noticing my blank face, he goes on. “We supply the casino with mechanics to fix the machines-”

There must be hundreds of companies on our payroll. I don’t recognize all of them yet. “Oh, I see.”

“My boss, Jack Vittorio, couldn’t be here. He wanted me to come in his place.”

I’m a little deflated.

He talks in a smooth, slow cadence but I notice that his eyes look hard. Anxiety flutters in my stomach as I watch his eyes narrow. I’m supposed to recognize his boss’ name, and I don’t. Shit.

“Right.” Behind him, there are at least twenty more people waiting to shake my hand and offer condolences and all of the energy I’ve managed to muster up from all the coffee I could handle seeps out of my bones. My eyes droop and I wish I could just be spirited away from this place.

Fuck.

I can’t do this. I can’t smile and shake hands when all I want to do is fall apart.

Nathan’s smooth voice punctures my thoughts as the handsome man watches me without a smile or glimmer behind his eyes. Someone leans in the coffin and touches his hand, and my eyes suddenly fill with tears when I think about how they’re going to put him in a hole in the earth and shovel a mound of dirt over him.

I’ll never be able to touch him again. I’ll never hear his voice again.

Turning away from Joe, I try to stifle my tears behind my hands. “I-I’m sorry.” I want to laugh at the ludicrousness of that statement. Why am I apologizing for crying at my own father’s wake?

This man that I hardly know steps in closer and takes my hand between his two cool ones and squeezes hard. At once, I’m consumed with a mixture of grief, surprise and almost-indignation. Who the hell is this guy? Why is he touching me? I’m so used to shaking hands that it feels incredibly confusing to have my personal space violated like this, but at the same time I want more. I want to be comforted with his arms around my waist and I even want his lips on my cheek. My skin burns just thinking about it. His cologne wraps around me in a pleasant cloud. It smells musky and I pick up notes of sandalwood. His face turns to my head.

“It’ll get easier.”

Then he lets me go and that incredible warmth pops like the burst of soap bubbles, and I wrap my arms around myself to try and get it back.