53. Daniela

Afew days after we get home, we board the flight to London for Edward’s funeral. We have Valentina with us, and several guards, with dozens more on a plane that left Porto two hours before us.

The plane has been swept from top to bottom several times, not only by some of Antonio’s men, but by an independent team that sweeps the president and prime minister’s planes. I have complete confidence that this flight will make it safely to London. We wouldn’t be going, otherwise.

Cristiano and Lucas are on the plane, too, and I invited Alma, Victor, and Sonia to come with us. They were all close to Lydia, and mourn her death like family.

The morning we left the barge—and the search—was painful.

Antonio was the last person on to the helicopter. Cristiano and I were already aboard, caught up in our own grief. Leaving was the right thing to do—for all of us. But that didn’t make it easier.

My heart wept as Antonio peered over his shoulder to the ocean below, before they shut the helicopter doors behind him. I’ll never forget the resigned sorrow that marred his handsome face. If I live to be a hundred, I hope to never see it again.

Edward’s funeral might be the closest thing we get to closure. Antonio won’t discuss holding a memorial service for his mother, and I won’t push him.

He glares at Sonia when she boards the plane, and then at me.

“She’s my guest,” I say firmly. He doesn’t argue, but a few minutes later he takes his dour self and goes to the back of the plane with Cristiano and Lucas, who are more inclined to ask permission and obey orders.

The one thing I’m sick about is that Rafael isn’t here. He still doesn’t know about Lydia. No matter how much I pleaded, Antonio wouldn’t budge on it. I considered trying to reach him myself, but I would be furious if it were Valentina and he completely disregarded my wishes.

We’ll return to Porto early this evening. Alma will be staying an extra day or two to go through Lydia’s things. I wanted to stay to help so she wouldn’t have to do it alone, but Antonio refused to spend a second longer in London than necessary. I could have stayed without him, but despite outward appearances, he has a long way to go before he heals, and I want to be there for those difficult moments. And there will be difficult moments.

Everyone manages grief differently, but no one is immune to its whims. Not even Antonio Huntsman.

* * *

When we arriveat the church, Antonio goes immediately to Samantha and wraps his arms around her. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, the sorrow palpable, twisted around every tortured word. “I should have taken better precautions.”

“Wasn’t your job,” Will mutters, without missing a beat. “It was mine.”

Antonio straightens, head high, shoulders back. “My family. My responsibility,” he replies, in that tone he uses daring anyone to challenge him.

But Will is no shrinking violet, and he’s blaming himself, too. It was his plane. His flight crew. And the plane had been housed in a hangar in London, under his protection. It wasn’t on the ground in Porto long enough for the bomb to be planted then.

Samantha steps in to prevent what could easily dissolve into a pissing match about who owns the tragedy.

“They loved each other madly,” she says softly, with one hand on Will and the other on Antonio. “They died together. As difficult as that is for us, I have to believe it’s what they would have wanted.”

Samantha watched her father suffer in the aftermath of her mother’s death, like I watched mine. In some perverse way, it almost feels that it is better this way.

I glance at Alexis and Valentina huddled together, tissues balled in their hands. And I wonder at what point all the death and loss becomes too much for Valentina. It’s crushing me, and I’m an adult.

Something has to change.