9. Fiora

Mason's urn is solid gold and shimmers in the parlor's lighting.

My brother always loved gold. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear since I could remember, even when I told him it was no longer fashionable. He didn't care. He did things his way, and no one dared to question him.

He was a male Godwin, which meant he could do what he wanted.

Gold made him feel powerful, I suppose.

The only time he took off his gold Poseidon Trident necklace was to shower. Three gem-infused gold rings adorned fingers on both of his hands because, as he always said, "Three's a party, but four's a crowd, Fiora. It's the perfect amount."

That jewelry was the only way to identify his body after someone fucking murdered him.

The funeral parlor is full of people offering condolences, but I only know half of them. I'm not privy to the full details of the Godwin business dealings because I've never needed to be. So much good that has done me. Mason was the heir to the family and the only man out of the four of us. Now that he's gone, I'm next in line… I suppose.

Which means my whole life changed the second that car bomb went off.

I turn away from the urn before I decide to pick it up and throw it across the room. Ever since I got that dreaded visit from Braken, I've been so angry. Angry at Mason because why did he go to that baseball game? Angry at whoever decided my only brother was better off charcoal than human. And mostly angry at myself, because his killer is still out there, and I'm stuck in here, smiling at people I don't give a shit about, not when my entire world has been flipped upside down.

"Fiora," someone with a deep voice calls from my right.

I turn to face my father. Hector Godwin is as tall as he is menacing. There's a reason the Godwins run the Pacific Northwest and even beyond, and the proof is in the large scar on his jaw and callused hands. His salt-and-pepper black hair is slicked back, almost as slick as his black Armani suit. The sight of it turns my stomach. This is his funeral suit, saved for only the worst of occasions. It hadn't been worn in such a long time. Why did it have to be for Mason, of all people?

"Yes, Papa?"

"It's time for the eulogies. Round up your sisters so we can speak." He narrows his eyes, and his jaw tightens. "Unless you don't think you can stick around long enough to do that. Care to run off again before we lower your brother into the ground?"

He's still angry I left, but I suppose I should feel lucky that he hasn't raged on me yet. Mason's death has taken up all his time, and when I returned home, he only asked where the hell I had been, and why should he let me back in now. But then he didn't give me a chance to answer before he stormed out of the room I stood in.

He lowers his eyes to my septum piercing. "The least you could have done is remove that ridiculous thing for your brother's funeral."

I touch the jewelry. "Oh… yes, sorry. I will."

I don't know why I feel the need to cater to his every request. The grip he has on me…

I want to argue. Scream. Make a scene. Tell Papa that I don't think I can get through my speech for Mason without bursting into tears and embarrassing our family. That's the one thing I was always taught not to do. Any embarrassment reflects badly on all of us.

Papa gets pulled away by someone I don't recognize but somehow seems important, so I have time to look through the sea of people to find Jescie and Sable. Sable is in conversation with one of her school friends, while Jescie stands by the back window, gazing out to the dark clouds and rain, holding a half-drunk glass of wine. No doubt it's one of Mason's favorites in his honor. In Jescie's mind, it wouldn't be right to have a remembrance without. She has always been the sentimental one in the family.

I'm halfway across the room when I feel it. Eyes on the back of my head as sharp as a laser. I turn and see what my gut already told me was there. Braken Frost stares at me from across the room, a shadow to his strong, angular face. His brown hair is neatly combed and gelled back, and he holds onto his black suit jacket, his white dress shirt practically molded to his muscular frame. His facial hair is neatly trimmed, and his tattoo I recognize so well on his neck dips into the unbuttoned top of his button-up.

Second son of the Frost family and famous hotel entrepreneur, Braken is no stranger to fame and wealth. The editorials featuring his smiling face as he stands in the lobby of one of his new Seattle-area hotels are sleek, polished, and Photoshopped to hell. Here, on the ashes of my brother, he's rugged, masculine, and much more dangerous.

Because Mason died on Frost soil.

Flames rush through my veins when he offers me a slight nod. How dare he show his face here? Someone from his family could have been the one to kill Mason. Papa said so himself when he told us to watch our backs. We don't know who to trust anymore, and even so, the Frosts aren't at the top of my list.

And if Papa discovers how Braken and I first met… he'll kill him right here on the spot.

Since I can't flick him off without incurring my father's wrath, I do the only thing I can. I ignore him, turn around, and walk away.

Jescie greets me with a raise of her glass and a forced smile. "Is it time?"

"Unfortunately," I answer with a heavy sigh.

I snatch the wine glass from her before she can stop me. My youngest sister doesn't protest as I down it in two gulps. We both need a little extra liquid courage to get through this.

"I was jealous you got away," Jescie admits. "I mean… I knew I'd miss you, and I was happy for you, but I was also green with envy. You did something I'd never have the courage to do."

"All it did was piss off Papa. Look at where I'm at now. Still here."

"Where did you go?"

"Not far enough away, apparently," I mutter.

She glances over at Papa. "Are you staying?"

"I don't think I have much of a choice now that Mason is dead."

The eulogies go in order from youngest to oldest. The room is so packed there's no room to sit, let alone breathe. Jescie stands there, a portrait of our deceased mother with her wavy, shoulder-length brown hair and hazel eyes that don't waver as she tells stories of Mason from childhood. Sable goes next, recounting the time Mason burst into her room and found her halfway through his birthday cake, which she then scarfed down before Mason could get a bite. The story makes the crowd chuckle, but Sable's smile is far from genuine. She dabs at the tears at the corner of her eye and steps down, long black ponytail bouncing in time with her Louboutins.

Now it's my turn.

Standing in front of the crowd is nearly paralyzing. Every pair of eyes is on me, but I can't tell which are friends and which are foes. Most likely none of them. Being a Godwin is a dangerous game where the pieces always shift before there's time to complete the puzzle. Being Hector Godwin's daughter means I should hold almost all the cards, but there could always be someone waiting to put a target on my back.

Just like they did with Mason.

"I'm not sure why we're here when Mason would much prefer to be at a Seattle Mariners game," I joke to start my tribute.

The room laughs and resounds with agreement, but my mouth runs dry. I wish it were just a joke. But Mason spent his life at the Seattle Mariners' stadium, all the way up to his dying moments.

The rest of the eulogy is a blur, mostly because of the tears that line my eyes and voice. Between the stories of us accidentally breaking our father's car window during baseball practice to us losing our voices from screaming during the many baseball games he dragged me to, it feels like Mason is alive in the stories I tell. How am I supposed to let him go?

I finish with a quiet, "Love you, Mason," and take my seat, staring at the ceiling lights until my eyes burn.

I can't cry in front of all these people. Any move I make as a Godwin is plastered all over social media before I can blink. Word gets around when your family is powerful and well-connected. Mason's death was front page on Page Six before his car even finished smoldering. The last thing I want is my red-splotchy face posted above some disgusting caption reading "DEVASTATED! Socialite Fiora Godwin cries at her brother's funeral and looks good doing it."

My father speaks of Mason's fire, loyalty, and talent. But Mason's murder isn't just a death. It's a warning. Someone is out there threatening to knock down the tower he spent so long building. And his words are clear that he'll find out who and make them pay.

By the time the respects are over, I'm exhausted. My eyes burn from trying to stop my tears. My chest is tight from the constant reminders that Mason is gone. There are so many people here that I want to scream or smoke a whole pack of Marlboros—something I haven't done in years.

I need air. I don't want to chance reporters or paparazzi outside just in case, so I make for the funeral home's back door, bowing my head politely to people who greet me as I pass. As I step out of the parlor, I feel it again. A pair of eyes watching my every move. But when I turn to look back, no one is paying me any mind, giving me a chance to make my escape.

The breeze is cold on my feverish skin, cooling me down. It wasn't supposed to rain today, but maybe the sky is crying with us. As the only male in the family, Mason was always Mom and Papa's favorite. Maybe he's Satan's favorite, too. There is no way Mason ended up at the pearly gates. In fact, I can imagine him playing poker with the demons, swindling them out of everything they had and laughing about how Hell is going to be a fun ride.

It brings a smile to my face.

"It's good to see you smiling again. It's good to see you period. I started to wonder if you'd return."

My body goes rigid before I recognize the voice. Marco. Just the person I need most right now.

I was worried he wouldn't come, but he strolls up to me as casually as ever, hands stuffed into the pockets of his rain-splattered trench coat.

Screw the tabloids. I hurry down the back steps of the funeral home to fling myself into his arms. He's warm and smells of mint and apple from the cologne I bought him for his birthday. He crushes me to his chest so close I can practically feel his heartbeat.

"Sorry I didn't come sooner," he mumbles into my hair.

"Or through the front door?" I say, weakly. It feels awful to smile and joke on such a sad day.

Marco chuckles as he lets me go. "Probably for the best I don't."

I can't exactly refute him. A cop at a Godwin's funeral is bound to raise a few eyebrows, after all.

"Do you want me to get my father?"

Marco shakes his head, shaggy brown hair falling over an eye.

"I'll talk to Hector later. Gotta head back to work, but I wanted to see you. I was happy to hear you returned to Seattle, even if it was because of this."

I glance behind him to see his car still running. The gesture warms me. Marco has been by my side since we took the same Intro to Business class at the University of Washington years back. He's also one of the only ones who didn't pressure me for my familial ties when he found out the truth. I've had plenty of friendships crash and burn once they realize that Hector Godwin isn't just a shipping mogul. But Marco has stuck with me through it all, even risking his job to pledge loyalty to the Godwin family.

If only we could be together. Law and Godwins don't mix well.

"It was foolish to think I could break away from… all this." I glance down at the ground and then back up into his eyes and smile. "But it's good to see you again."

"Are you gonna be okay without me?" Marco asks.

The question makes me chuckle. He always asks this before he leaves, and my answer is always the same.

"As okay as you are without me."

"Okay, but if you need anything, you let me know, and I'll come running. Got it?"

I nod. "Got it."

Marco leaves with a two-fingered wave, the same as always, but I can't help feeling like something is different. Maybe the world has shifted now that Mason is gone, or maybe I'm the one who's shifted. I can't tell.

The only thing I know for sure is that everything is going to change from this moment forward.