The cemetery lay beyond the estate's northern ridge.
Older than the pack's current territory.
Older than the stone walls.
Older than memory—
Or so they liked to claim.
Elara reached it just after midnight, boots sinking into rain-softened earth. The storm had thinned to a restless drizzle, wind threading through iron railings with a low, complaining hiss.
Ugh.
Her jacket clung to her shoulders, damp and heavy, but she barely noticed.
Because she knew exactly where she was going.
She had been here before.
Once.
Years ago.
When grief was fresh and history was still kind enough to remain silent.
Now—
History had found its voice.
And it sounded like accusation.
---
His grave was simple.
No grand monument.
No pack sigil.
Just his name carved into dark stone.
Giovanni Romano.
Diplomat.
Advisor.
Liar.
Traitor.
Protector.
Depending on who you asked.
Elara stopped a few feet away.
Rain tapped softly against marble.
