1 - Anaya
The first shovel of dirt hits the coffin and it echoes—too loud, too deep.
The sound crawls up my cane, into my hand, settles somewhere in my chest.
My father is in the ground.
I already know that. I knew it before the shovel hit. Before the casket lowered. Before any of this started.
And it still doesn’t feel real.
Around me, people shift. Black fabric. Quiet voices. No one looks at me for long. Half of them don’t see a loss. They see a vacancy.
The dirt hits again.
Too loud.
It shouldn’t be this loud—
I jerk awake.
My ceiling replaces the sky. For a second, I don’t move.
Then the ache in my back settles in like it never left—just quieter before. Waiting.
I exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling like it might give me something back. It doesn’t. It never does.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
My hand tightens slightly against the sheets before I force it to relax.
Not the first time. Won’t be the last.
I turn my head, eyes dragging toward the window. The light pushing through the curtains is dull, gray—morning, but barely.
Rain.
Of course.
Orange prescription bottles line my nightstand in careful order. I tip them into one cap and swallow them chasing the burn with water. I wait for them to settle. Mornings are often negotiations between what I want and reality.
I shift to the edge of my bed and stretch until my spine pops once. Sharp and decisive. That’s as good as it’s going to get.
My closet opens to rows of armor. Tailored slacks. Shirts cut to move with me instead of against me. My father used to say I wore power well. That it fit me nicely.
I settle for black slacks, an olive green dress shirt and Converse to match. Functional. Clean.
Nothing that would invite pity or unnecessary niceties.
Downstairs the air feels heavy. Not all consuming like fresh grief, just the kind of stillness that settles after too many days without his voice.
Part of me still expects my father to walk past my door. To start a pot of coffee. To outline what the day ahead looked like in that steady voice that made everything sound simple.
But Dante Marino is not walking through any more doors.
His leather chairs remain where he had them placed when he first bought them. His oak desk dominates the office. The books he claimed to read “when things slowed down” gather dust.
The rest of the house has shifted.
Kamari’s running shoes sit by the door, laces tied and lined up like he can be ready for a sprint in seconds. One of Luca’s jacket hangs crooked on one of the hooks on the coat rack. Elijah’s favorite mug waits in the sink - already clean and ready for the day if he’s not already using it.
Luca’s the first person I see, draped across the top of the suede sectional like they’re a cat. One hand hanging over the back while the other rolls a silver fidget ring with their thumb.
Kamari’s by the door arms crossed, locs tied back scrolling through his phone like he’s trying to keep himself busy.
Turning a little I can see Elijah in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up showing off the dark ink winding up his forearms - evidence of a past he hardly ever talks about.
They all glance up when the sound of my cane taps the floor. “Morning,” Elijah says voice deep and steady. He nudges a mug of coffee my way.
“Morning,” I say picking up the mug, warmth seeping into my hands taking away some of the ache in my wrist almost immediately. The energy boost is exactly how I like it - more chocolate milk with a mocha edge than coffee.
Kamari’s gaze drops to my shoulders and his leather jacket. A small smirk curves his lips. “We should get going.”
Luca hums without looking over, still twisting their ring back and forth. “Let them wait. They’ve had weeks to sharpen their beaks.”
Elijah rinses his mug then I set mine in the sink beside his.
“They’ll interpret this bereavement period as a weakness. Ending it now and getting back to work is important.”
I look at him slightly annoyed with his statement and how right he actually is. “Then let’s go.”
The air outside is dense with a morning chill. Elijah unlocks the car and slides into the driver seat without another word. He’s our resident speed racer. He’s able to get us out of any dicey situation if there’s a car nearby. Kamari takes shotgun but not before opening the back passenger door for me.
“Maybe chivalry isn’t dead after all.”Luca says jumping in behind Elijah.
Kamari shoots them a look over his shoulder that makes them throw their hands up defensively.
Shaking my head I settle in the back beside Luca, putting my cane on the floor. “Don’t start.”
The engine turns over, rumbling low and steady.
90’s R&B plays softly throughout the car. Outside the streets shine from last night’s rain, thin drizzle still tracing lazy patterns down the windshield. The city smells like wet earth and that gives me a sense of a new beginning.
But new is always scary at first
Elijah drives like he always does hands steady on the wheel like the road itself answers to him. The windshield wipers move in measured arches.
Avalon Creek looks the same in the drizzle. That’swhat unsettles me. Storefronts glow through the mist. Traffic hums. People hurry beneath awnings, shoulders tucked in against the cold.
My father is in the ground. The city breathes anyway.
Essence waits at the end of the block, glass and dark wood rising through the gray like it refuses to dull itself for weather.
Rain beads against the windows, blurring the amber light inside. My father used to say every empire needed a stage. This was his.
Inside warmth swallows us whole. The air is thick with the bold smell of garlic and charred meat.
Low jazz glides through the restaurant. Smooth enough to soften sharp conversations.
The private dining room is already full.
Every head turns when I approach, but other than that no one acknowledges us. Of course they don’t The Midwest Collective doesn’t pretend. This meeting isn’t out of respect. It’s an assessment. An ambush wrapped in civility.
The Bianchi twins from Ohio sit side by side—Carlos polished to surgical perfection. Carter restless, coiled tight like a spring. Langston Deveraux of Missouri folds his hands neatly in front of him, old money confidence radiating from his three peice suit. His daughter Layla sits beside him RBF on full display. Olivia Navarro is draped in black silk and gold rings, her fingers tapping against her glass like she’s already bored. Royce Thorne of Indiana lazily swirls an Old Fashioned. Mateo De La Cruz exhales cigarette smoke in a thin stream, scanning the room with a watchful eye. And Victor Orlov of Minnesota. Most reactive. Least respected.
Donovan Leone stands slightly behind the table instead of at it, his hands clasped at his back. My father’s underboss. A solid, steady man. He’s been at my side since the funeral.
Some would call that loyalty.
I don’t like it.
I place my palm on the back of the chair at the head of the table. My father’s chair. He never wanted me here. He wanted me far away from here. Somewhere safe. But he’s gone now and what could have been doesn’t matter anymore. The scrape of wood against tile is sharp enough to catch the attention of others in the front. I sit and motion for anyone to start.
Carlos is the first to speak, his voice as smooth as the velvet pocket square sticking out of his jacket. “Your father was a great man. His absence leaves a void in the Collective. One we all feel.”
“The funeral was almost a month ago,”I cut in gently. “We don’t need another eulogy.”
His jaw tightens slightly before he continues, “What we need is balance.” He sighs hard,
“Dante had a way of maintaining it. We’re ensuring his passing doesn’t throw operations off the tracks.”
Victor slams his palm against the table before Carlos finishes speaking. Silver rattles against china. Glass trembles.
My whole body jolts before I can stop it, the sharp startle reflex I’ve never been able to get rid of. My cane clatters against the table to the floor.
“Balance requires leadership.”Victor hisses quietly.
There it is. He doesn’t look at me immediately. He looks at the room.
“We all knew about Dante’s mission to keep you from this,” then he looks at me, “With respect Anaya,” birthright aside, there are men designed for this.”
His eyes flicker toward Donovan then Elijah.
The room stills.
Victor’s words hang in the air curling around the smoke above us. Elijah doesn’t move. Donovan doesn’t speak. I remain seated.
“You’re concerned about leadership.” I say calmly. “Specifically mine.”
Victor lifts one shoulder. “The Collective deserves stability.”
“Of course it does.” I fold my hands on the table.
“Remind me, Victor what percentage of Collective routing runs through Minnesota?”
His face falls when he realizes where I’m headed. He wasn’t expecting me to bring up logistics.
“That’s not the point. All of us succeed together.”
It takes everything in me to hold back the witch’s cackle in my throat. I clear my throat with a smile. “We may work together but success is not a joint act.”
I tilt my head just slightly. “Minnesota has the least amount of passages in our network of operations. Your reach barely extends past your home base in Edina.”
Carlos clears his throat and Royce stops nursing his Old Fashioned mid sip.
If the concern is operational stability, Icontinue evenly, I’m curious why the territory with the least expansion feels qualified to evaluate the rest.”
Silence spreads across the table. No one rushes to save him.
Donovan clears his throat. “Let’s redirect.” He says, tone even.
“Dante built something here that deserves more than a public spout of the mouth before the earth on his grave has settled.”
His gaze moves across the table, acknowledging each head of territory before he reaches me.
“Transitions create uncertainty. Uncertainty invites opportunists” He pauses. “It would be wise to establish a point of continuity”someone the Collective can rely on while the dust settles.”
He doesn’t say a name. He doesn’t have to.
Langston Deveraux folds his hands neatly on the table, cuff links catching in the amber light.
“A measured approach would be wise,”he says smoothly. “Stability is not an insult. It is protection.”
A quiet murmur moves through the table, not quite agreement but close enough. Victor leans back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly now that someone’s said what he wanted to really say.
Donovan’s posture never shifts. Hands still clasped behind his back, expression calm like he’s just offered a perfectly reasonable change of authority.
Kamari shifts beside me, the subtle creak of leather giving him away. His fingers tap once against the table before going still again. Luca watches the exchange with quiet interest, the silver ring rolling between their fingers calmly, like the whole conversation is about something so mundane and trivial rather than something so serious as the fate of the family.
Elijah remains motionless. Everyone is waiting. Waiting to see if I fold.
Outside the rain taps steadily against the tall windows of Essence, tracing slow lines down the glass. Tne city beyond the dining room like moves like nothing important is happening here.
Inside, the air is heavier.
Victor shifts forward in his chair sensing the trip in my demeanor. “You see?”he says, gesturing toward Langston and Donovan.
“No one here is questioning your place in the family, Anaya. Blood carries weight. We all respect that.”
His gaze sweeps the table before settling back on me. “But the Collective is larger than Avalon Creek. Larger than inheritance.”
Royce sets his glass down with a quiet clink.
Mateo exhales another thin ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling.
“We’re discussing leadership,” he continues.
“Real leadership. The kind built through experience. Through years of being prepared for this.”
His eyes flicker toward Elijah, then briefly to Donovan. The implication hangs there obvious enough that it doesn’t need to be said out loud.
Across the table, Carter Bianchi shifts in his seat, restless energy coiling through him while Carlos remains perfectly still beside him. Langston’s hands stay folded, expression unreadable. Olivia idly rocks a ring on her finger, watching the exchange like it’s the most entertaining thing she’s seen all week.
Donovan finally lets his hands fall behind his back, resting them lightly against the back of an empty chair.
Kamari’srhythmic tapping has stopped.
For a moment the only sound in the room is the soft brush of rain against the windows and the low hum of jazz drifting in from the main dining room.
Luca pushes off the wall just enough to shift their weight, shoulders still relaxed like none of this carries any urgency at all.
“You know what’s interesting?” they say casually.
A few heads turn.
Luca rolls the silver ring once between their fingers before letting their hand fall to their side.
“Everyone in this room keeps using the word stability.”
Their gaze drifts lazily across the table. “But the only thing that’sactually happened since this meeting started is a conversation about rearranging how Avalon Creek is run”
Victor’s mouth tightens.
Carlos watches Luca carefully now.
Luca shrugs slightly. “Seems like a weird way to demonstrate the definition of stability if you ask me.”
The comment settles over the table like a thin sheet of ice. No one immediately answers. Victor shifts in his chair again but doesn’t speak.
Langston’sexpression doesn’t change at his son’s statement.
Donovan meets my gaze when I look at him.
Calm. Attentive. Waiting.
The room is quiet enough that the faint clatter of dishes from the main dining room drifts through the door. Outside, the rain hasn’t slowed.
“For the remainder of the year,” I continue calmly. “Donovan will serve as an overseer to Avalon Creek.”
The room stills.
“He’ll report to the Collective if he believes it is necessary.” I pop my knuckles to release some of the tension.
“Eight months should be more than enough time for everyone to feel confident that Avalon Creek is still standing strong. ”
Victor sits a little straighter. Langston’s gaze sharpens.
“But Avalon Creek remains Marino territory ran by me.” The distinction hangs in the air with Mateo’s cigarette smoke.
Donovan dips his head once in acknowledgement. I push my chair back, the smooth scrape of wood against tile cuts through the room.
“If the Collective’s concerns have been addressed,” I say rising slowly, cane in hand, then this meeting is finished.”
No one moves at first. They’re still watching me. Waiting to catch me slipping.
I motion to the front door, making my intensions clear. “You’ve all taken enough of my morning.”
My gaze moves across the table one last time. “Get out.”
Royce chuckles under his breath as he stands. Carlos rises next, Carter follows with an overexerted stretch. Mateo stubs out his cigarette on the glass ashtray. Olivia slides smoothly out of her chair before retrieving her umbrella. Langston slips on his coat as Layla holds it open for him. Victor lingers the longest. He looks between Donovan and me one last time. Then he leaves too.
I watch them all until they cross the threshold into the rain then take a deep breath, taking ownership of the space once more.
The door closes behind them with a muted thud, sealing the room back into the low hum of jazz and the lingering haze of smoke. For a moment no one speaks.
Kamari exhales softly beside me, the tension rolling out of his shoulders now that the room is finally ours again. Luca pushes away from the wall, turning the silver ring lazily between their fingers as they cross the room. Elijah remains where he is, steady as ever, eyes still on the door like he expects it to open again.
But it doesn’t. Outside the rain keeps falling. Inside Essence remains the Marino center stage
