Chapter 1 — The Funeral of a King

Ream

The rain was relentless, a steady rhythm hammering against the sea of black umbrellas gathered around the Altieri Family Mausoleum. The scent of wet earth clung to the air, mingling with the acrid tang of burning incense curling from brass braziers flanking the marble steps. Ream Altieri stood at the forefront of the mourners, his tall figure rigid in a tailored black suit that absorbed the weight of the day. The faint scar along his sharp jawline caught the gray light as he inclined his head slightly downward, his piercing gray eyes fixed on the gilded casket resting on the bier.

Salvatore Altieri’s body lay encased in decadence. Gold filigree coiled around the deep mahogany wood of the coffin, a display of pride even in death. Ream’s fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists. The Altieri Signet Ring, newly placed on his finger, felt heavy—like a shackle made of solid gold, the coiled serpent etched into its surface biting into his skin. He resisted the urge to twist it.

The priest’s voice droned on, Latin prayers dissolving under the ceaseless patter of rain. Ream’s mind drifted unbidden to the memory of his father’s blood soaking the smooth marble of the estate’s study. The copper tang of betrayal hung in the air that night, mingled with the bergamot and leather of his father’s cologne. A single bullet had shattered decades of dominance, leaving Salvatore Altieri slumped over his grand oak desk, a crimson map unfurling across his chest.

Ream tightened his grip on his jacket, forcing himself back to the present. The casket gleamed through the mist of rain, and behind it, the mausoleum loomed—a monument to a legacy now riddled with cracks both visible and invisible.

The shuffle of polished leather shoes against wet grass pulled his attention. Even before lifting his gaze, he knew who it was. Vito Marconi. The weight of his rival’s presence pressed against Ream’s shoulders like a blade.

“Ream.” Vito’s voice rolled smooth and deliberate, slicing through the solemnity like a razor across silk. “Your father was a legend,” he said, pausing just long enough to let the words curdle. “May your leadership honor his... legacy.”

Ream turned his head, measured and slow, to meet Vito’s piercing blue eyes. Marconi’s shaved head gleamed under the muted daylight, the scar slashing down his cheek a testament to his ruthlessness. His words dripped with veiled threat, each syllable carefully calculated.

“Legends don’t die, Marconi. They endure,” Ream replied, his voice calm but sharp, a blade honed to precision.

A flicker of amusement crossed Vito’s face, too faint to decipher fully. He leaned in slightly, his words quiet but edged with menace. “True enough. Though legacies... legacies are far more delicate. One wrong move, and they shatter.”

He let the threat linger, clapping Ream on the shoulder with a grip that burned like acid under the guise of camaraderie. “We’ll talk soon.”

As Vito turned and melted back into the crowd, his cologne—expensive and cloying—left a sour trace in the air. Ream’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. The chessboard of power had shifted the moment his father’s heart had stopped, and now every move was his to make. Every piece—every person—was either a weapon or a threat.

*Control is strength, Ream. Hesitation is death.* His father’s voice echoed in his mind.

The rain cascaded around him, muffling the sound of the dispersing mourners. The tension in Ream’s shoulders eased slightly as a familiar figure approached. Lucia Altieri moved through the thinning crowd with quiet elegance, her petite frame cloaked in an understated black coat. Her dark hair, pinned back to reveal striking green eyes, glistened faintly with rain.

“You’re a king now,” she murmured, her voice low but steady. Yet, there was something beneath her words—fear, perhaps, or frustration.

Ream’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Wanting has nothing to do with it,” he said evenly.

Lucia’s gaze flicked to the ring on his finger, her eyes narrowing slightly before returning to his face. “It’s not just about wearing the crown, Ream. You have to decide what kind of king you’ll be. Father ruled with fear, but—”

“Lucia.” His voice was sharp, though it lacked venom. “This isn’t a choice. It’s survival.”

Her expression softened, disappointment mingling with quiet defiance. She reached out, brushing a raindrop from his sleeve. “Survival doesn’t have to mean losing yourself. Just... don’t forget that.”

For a moment, her hand lingered, then fell away. Her steps were light yet deliberate as she turned and walked toward the car waiting in the distance. Ream’s gaze followed her, the unspoken tension between them lingering like the rain-heavy air.

“Boss.”

Ream turned toward the gravelly voice of Sapnap Mercer. His right-hand man approached with his usual unhurried confidence, clad in a black leather jacket that barely acknowledged the solemnity of the occasion. Rain clung to his unruly black hair, and his sharp, dark eyes scanned the retreating mourners with practiced vigilance.

“You’ve got vultures circling,” Sapnap muttered, his tone laced with dry cynicism. “Marconi’s already sniffing for weak spots.” He tilted his head, his grin faint but sardonic. “The boys’ll follow you, but they’re waiting to see if you’ve got the spine for this. You need to give them something. Fast.”

Ream nodded slightly, his face unreadable, even as the weight of the ring seemed to press harder against his finger. “What about the mole?”

Sapnap’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Still digging. Whoever it is, they’re good. Too good. Could be someone close.” He hesitated, then leaned in just slightly. “You sure you can trust everyone in that house?”

Ream’s silence was answer enough. His father’s lessons had been clear: trust was a luxury, and luxuries were dangerous.

Sapnap exhaled through his nose, his tone shifting to something quieter, more earnest. “Look,” he said, “you’re not your old man. That’s a good thing. But if you don’t show them you’ve got this, they’ll tear you—and each other—apart.”

Ream met his gaze, gray eyes sharp but shadowed with something unspoken. Sapnap’s grin softened as he clapped Ream’s shoulder lightly. “You’ve got this, boss. Just don’t overthink it, yeah? Enough of us are already doing that for you.”

A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of a smile tugged at Ream’s lips before disappearing just as quickly. Sapnap turned away, scanning the cemetery like a soldier anticipating an ambush.

As the last of the mourners drifted out of sight, Ream stood alone before the mausoleum. His gaze fell to the name carved into the marble: Salvatore Altieri. The letters gleamed, rain pooling in the grooves like tears etched into stone.

Sliding his hand into his pocket, Ream’s fingers brushed against the smooth, cold surface of the black king chess piece hidden there. A relic of his father’s endless lessons, its presence was both a comfort and a curse.

The rain softened, the world around him dissolving into muted shades of gray. At last, he turned, his shoes clicking sharply against the wet stone as he strode toward the waiting car.

The weight of the ring on his finger cut deeper, a constant reminder of the mantle he now bore. It was both a promise and a burden.

The king was dead.

Long live the king.