Trust me Not | ✓

40 • don

c h a p t e r

40

epilogue

♔

d o n

THE SNOW CRUNCHED BENEATH MY SHOES.

Crowds of men and women dressed in black formal attire stood around a grave, some huddled under umbrellas others braving their way with the relentless rain.

I stood near a tree, wanting a shade for my cigar as I drew in a long breath, hoping it could calm my nerves from jumping out of my skin. A eulogy was being read, talking about the deceased's achievements and wins, about the mark they left on this world.

Mierda.

I threw the unfinished stick onto the wet mud, not bothering to stub it. Maybe the fire would burn this whole place down and consume me with it. The rain continued to beat down on us heavily as if the heavens were crying. Quite ironic when this death was sealed a whole year ago.

"Pedro was loved." Mateo spoke in a dry voice, not glancing at his brother's grave and only obliging to this shitty job because I had ordered him to do so.

He wanted nothing more than to return to the arms of his lovely wife.

I eyed Miss Castelar, now Rose de la Garza, standing beside my mother and aunt, trying to calm the sniffling woman. My mother was too elegant to show tears in front such a massive crowd but truth to be told, she hated everyone but my father. The very man standing near his wife, looking every bit retired and aged.

His eyes found mine amidst the people, raising a lone brow in question which I ignored. I couldn't care less of it. The connection that I held with Padre had faded over the past year, ever since I had become the Don, ever since everything had changed.

My men, that used to respect me, feared me now. They cowered in my presence, trembled in the fact that even a wrong stride may piss the fuck out of me. I was like a ticking time bomb, going off every time someone was caught slacking.

I always took care of them personally.

I had dropped out of Knightson University, buying out my degree so I could take over the post as the head of Nuestra Familia. There wasn't anything more for me to learn there anyway.

Or the fact that the dull walls or lonely corridors would remind me of a certain someone I couldn't bear to see. Even if I wanted to.

I found my feet pull me towards the other side of the graveyard, the far end where lay a grey tomb, alone, with a grand area reserved only for it. On top of it lay a red rose, a reminder of a legacy that her wretched mother had left behind.

Myra Chaudhary

A daughter. A sister. A friend.

I plucked the godforsaken flower and threw it away, knowing it brought back nightmares instead of dreams. Knowing I could never look at a field of roses without wanting to burn it down.

My eyes raked over the stone from top to bottom, it was marble and carved. The sides lush green from the amount I payed the grave-keeper for its maintenance. I pulled out a lone lavender instead, crushed from staying inside of my pocket.

I placed it atop the stone, my final memory of her in a lehenga she had chosen for herself.

She had looked so beautiful.

I rubbed a hand along my stubble, it had outgrown from the lack of care I had taken of myself. Beside the incessant nagging of her stupid butler, who had unfortunately taken me under her care.

Sita or whatever the abuela was called had a bad habit of checking up on me on random days with a box of dhoklas, a weird yellow sweet that she claimed were Myra's favourite. To me it tasted like sand but to think it was something Myra once cherished was enough for me to push them past my lips.

I wondered who could have put the rose on her tomb considering I spent most of my nights here with a bottle of whiskey and a rugged self that my father disapproved of greatly. I simply couldn't care less.

I remembered walking into the room, seeing the floor stained crimson with Myra's blood. She had lied in it like a princess from fairy tales. Eyes closed, mouth ajar and face so peaceful that I had to look twice. It felt wrong to even want to wake her.

Maybe I could have never granted her such peace.

The anguish that had ensued was ruthless to say in the least. The rampage I had embarked upon was nothing short of a massacre. I could still hear the echo of my padre's words when I stood atop a bundle of corpses of a small mafia family that had dared to threaten us.

"A man with a broken heart and nothing to lose is the most dangerous of all."

And it had stuck, the pain and the reputation.

I had gained the title, I had gained the name, and what Mateo once told me did come true.

The path to success is a lonely one.

I had everything I had ever worked for right in my fist, within my grasp but, even today, I would readily throw it away for time to turn it itself back.

My hand reached for my wallet, pulling it out of my back pocket as I tugged it open. It revealed a bit of bills, a broken cigar and a note that I had sealed in a plastic cover.

It was the sole reason why Arnold was wearing a cast over his right hand and bandages across his face, alongside a broken nose and busted lip. It was the reason things had begun to change, time had begun to tick.

A few weeks back, I had discovered that Myra had left a note for me and when I learnt that Arnold had withheld it, I had almost beaten him to death. He claimed seeing it would have made me spiral, but the current me was at a rock bottom that was concerning enough to bring the note out.

At the start I didn't understand it, wanting to dig Myra out of her grave and demand her to make sense of her message. But it was a message to me, from her, nonetheless.

Seeing her scribble on the note made my face finally spilt into an expression different from a scowl, something along the lines of a smile that was only reserved for her.

Since then, I had decided to spend my whole life trying to become deserving of her. It was the only thing I could do for a heart that beat for her. To live as a man she would have wanted beside her.

My princess, I will become deserving of you.

• f i n •

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