The Otero
Gabriel Otero would have hated his funeral. There were too many flowers. Too many people. And somebody had parked a Bentley on the lawn. Catalina stood in the shade of an old oak and stared at the offending vehicle.
“Dad would’ve had it towed.”
Marcus followed her gaze.
“Your dad would’ve keyed it.”
Catalina looked at him. Marcus shrugged.
“He was complicated.”
A laugh escaped her. Small. Wrong for a funeral. Exactly right for Gabriel. Catalina looked away before the laugh could become something else.
The cemetery spread across the hillside below them, green despite the late-season heat. Rows of old stone gave way to newer granite and the occasional monument erected by someone determined to remain important after death. The Otero plot wasn’t subtle. Neither had been Gabriel.
Sofia’s grave sat beneath a jacaranda planted at the cemetery fourteen years ago. The tree at the Otero house was gone; this one had grown beside her mother’s grave.
Gabriel would be beside her before noon. Catalina had chosen the stone herself. Simple. GABRIEL OTERO Dates. Nothing else.
The funeral director had suggested:
Beloved father. Respected leader. Devoted husband.
Catalina had declined. Not because those things weren’t true. Because Gabriel would’ve called it advertising. He knew who he’d been. So did everyone here. They didn’t need granite to explain him. People had been arriving for forty minutes.
Catalina had been shaking hands for thirty-eight. Clan leaders. Business partners. Employees. Retired employees. Drivers. Mechanics. Bankers. Attorneys. Auction people. Two customs officials Catalina strongly suspected Gabriel had bribed at least once. A florist Sofia used to employ. The nurse who’d cared for Gabriel his final weeks.
Three men Catalina didn’t recognize who cried harder than most of the family. Apparently Gabriel had collected people. Catalina had known that. She hadn’t understood the scale.
“Ms. Otero.”
Catalina turned. A man from Westbridge. Of course. He wore funeral black and the expression of a man trying to look sympathetic while calculating collateral.
“Mr. Jenkins.”
He took her hand.
“I’m deeply sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Your father was an extraordinary man.”
“He was.”
“If there’s anything Westbridge can do during the transition—”
“There is no transition.”
Jenkins stopped. Catalina smiled politely.
“My succession documents were executed before my father’s death. Existing governance remains intact. Arturo retains operational authority. Banking authorizations were updated Tuesday.”
Marcus coughed behind her. Jenkins recovered.
“Of course.”
“But thank you.”
“Yes.”
He released her hand. Catalina watched him walk away. Marcus leaned closer.
“He lasted twelve seconds.”
“Eleven.”
“You counted?”
“Yes.”
“Your father would be proud.”
Catalina looked toward the casket.
“I know.”
That one hurt. She was not the heir anymore. People kept forgetting. Or pretending to. The difference was irrelevant. Yesterday morning, three different vendors had requested confirmation that Gabriel’s death did not alter Otero Automotive’s payment authority. One insurer wanted updated leadership documentation. A transport partner wanted reassurance. A lender wanted a call.
Two council members wanted meetings. Someone in Europe wanted to know whether Catalina intended to maintain Gabriel’s expansion strategy. And one spectacularly stupid broker had asked Arturo whether Otero would appoint an interim male representative.
Arturo had forwarded Catalina the email. No commentary. Catalina had replied directly. There was no interim. There was no succession period. There was no vacancy.
Gabriel Otero was dead. Catalina Otero was not. The broker had apologized within six minutes. Efficient. Lucía appeared beside her.
“You ate?”
“Yes.”
“Food?”
Catalina looked at her. Lucía looked back. Catalina sighed.
“Toast.”
“When?”
“Morning.”
“It is ten thirty.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been standing.”
“That counts.”
“No.”
Lucía shoved something into her hand. A protein bar. Catalina stared at it.
“Really?”
“Eat.”
“At my father’s funeral?”
“He’d approve.”
“He’d steal half.”
“Exactly.”
Catalina opened it.
Across the lawn, Elena saw. Nodded approvingly. Catalina pointed at Lucía.
“You told her.”
“I didn’t have to.”
Traitors. Everywhere.
Roman arrived alone. Catalina didn’t feel him. She still caught herself expecting to. Expecting that warning beneath her ribs. Instead, there was nothing. Once, her body had known Roman was in the building before her eyes did. Now he simply appeared. Dark suit. Steel watch. Hair slightly too long.
He stopped at the edge of the gathering. Elena saw him first. Her face changed. Roman went to his mother. Catalina looked away. Not because it hurt. It did. But because that moment belonged to them.
Gabriel had given Elena safety. Work. A home. He’d given Roman space. Then later, a job. He’d known exactly who Roman was and never used it. Never told him.
Catalina still wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that. Probably complicated. Most things involving Gabriel were. When she looked back, Roman was hugging Lucía. Then Marcus. Then Arturo. He did not come directly to Catalina. Thank God. He understood. Eventually, their eyes met.
Roman nodded. Catalina nodded back. That was enough. For now.
Sloane arrived seventeen minutes later. Catalina knew because the energy of the funeral somehow changed. Not supernaturally. Sloane was simply Sloane. She wore black. Actually black. No print. No dramatic hat. No enormous sunglasses.
Catalina had been mildly concerned. Vittorio walked beside her. He looked older than he had at the wedding. Only six days ago. Six. Catalina’s stomach tightened. That seemed impossible. Six days since she’d worn Sofia’s earrings and walked toward Luca. Six days since Gianna. Six days since David punched Luca. Two days since Gabriel died.
Time had become stupid. Sloane approached carefully. Not because she was afraid of Catalina. Because she was trying not to hug her without permission. Catalina saw it. Rolled her eyes. And opened one arm.
Sloane immediately folded into her.
“Oh, thank God.”
Catalina laughed against her hair.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been trying to respect boundaries.”
“You’re terrible at it.”
“I know.”
Sloane held her tighter. Catalina let her. When they separated, Sloane’s eyes were wet.
“I loved your dad.”
“I know.”
“He called Francesca livestock.”
“She is livestock.”
“Fuck you.”
Catalina smiled. There. That was better. Vittorio stepped forward. He didn’t touch her.
“Tesoro.”
Catalina’s throat tightened.
“Hi.”
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
His eyes moved toward Gabriel.
“He was my friend a long time.”
Catalina nodded.
“He liked you too.”
Vittorio smiled faintly.
“He insulted me constantly.”
“That was how you knew.”
“Yes.”
He looked back at Catalina.
“If you need anything—”
Sloane elbowed him. Vittorio frowned.
“What?”
“She has heard that approximately nine thousand times.”
Catalina looked at Sloane.
“Eleven thousand.”
“See?”
Vittorio sighed.
“Fine.”
He considered.
Then:
“If anyone annoys you, tell me. I have resources.”
Catalina laughed.
“Better.”
“Good.”
Luca did not come. Catalina had known he wouldn’t. He’d sent a note. Handwritten. No flowers. No apology for the wedding. No request to talk.
Just:
Gabriel treated me with more generosity than I deserved. I am grateful I knew him. I am sorry for your loss. I will stay away today. — Luca
Catalina had read it once. Then put it in a drawer. That had been the correct decision. His. For once.
At eleven sixteen, Catalina felt warmth beneath her ribs. She closed her eyes.
Goddammit.
Not today. She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. David Hale had arrived. Her wolf, quiet for days, lifted its head. There. Catalina inhaled slowly.
No.
We were not doing this at Gabriel’s funeral. Her wolf did not care. Apparently grief had not improved its manners.
“What’s wrong?”
Sloane stood beside her.
“Nothing.”
Sloane followed Catalina’s gaze despite Catalina not actually looking anywhere.
Then:
“Oh.”
Catalina glared.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is expressive.”
“Your face is annoying.”
“Also true.”
Catalina finally turned.
David stood near the cemetery entrance with an older woman. Margaret Hale. Catalina had met her briefly at the wedding. Before everything exploded. David wore a black suit. No tie. His hair caught silver at the temples. He looked—
Catalina stopped that thought. Not today. Margaret touched his arm. David looked down at her. Then his head lifted. Straight toward Catalina. Of course. Across fifty yards, mourners, flowers and gravestones— he found her immediately. Warmth spread.
David went still. Catalina’s wolf moved closer. His did too. She could tell. Somehow. Again.
Sloane whispered:
“That’s extremely fucking weird.”
Catalina didn’t look away from David.
“Yes.”
Five nights earlier, David Hale had woken at two eleven in the morning with grief in his chest. Not sadness. Grief. The kind that hollowed the lungs. He had sat upright in bed with one hand over his sternum, convinced for several seconds that he was having a heart attack.
His wolf had been standing inside him. Rigid. Listening. David had gotten out of bed. Checked the house. Checked his phone. Nothing. His mother asleep. Family fine. No security alerts. No clan emergency. No reason. The feeling remained. Then, at two nineteen, his phone rang.
Elena. David had known before answering. Not the details. Just— Catalina. Something had happened to Catalina.
“Gabriel’s gone.”
Elena’s voice broke. David closed his eyes. The grief inside him sharpened. Not his. Hers. He knew it with an impossible certainty.
“Catalina?”
“With him.”
David sat on the edge of the bed.
“Is she—”
He stopped. What could he ask? Was she okay? Her father had just died.
No.
“She’s with Lucía.”
“Good.”
Elena cried quietly. David listened.
Then she said:
“David?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
He looked at the dark room. At his hand over his chest. At a grief that belonged to a woman thirty miles away.
“No.”
He hadn’t told her why. He’d spent the next five days attempting to explain it. Poorly. He read everything Hale archives had on rejected bonds. Then Otero records Gabriel had shared. Then medical literature on clan imprinting. Then several spectacularly unscientific historical accounts written by wolves who apparently believed punctuation was optional. Nothing.
Rejected mate bonds could leave sensory echoes. Not after complete severance. Family scent could produce familiarity. Not grief. Proximity could intensify clan recognition. He had been nowhere near Catalina when Gabriel died. Trauma could create strange associations. That explanation David liked. It was rational. Unfortunately, his wolf thought it was bullshit.
Then there was the punch. David had reviewed that too. Repeatedly. He had not decided to hit Luca. That bothered him. David made decisions. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes violently. But consciously. He did not lose control because another man said something cruel about a woman David barely knew. Except apparently he did.
And now he stood at Gabriel Otero’s funeral fifty yards from Catalina— and knew exactly where she was. His wolf rose. There. David closed his eyes briefly. His mother looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been saying nothing for a week.”
“Has it worked?”
“No.”
“Unfortunate.”
Margaret followed his gaze. Saw Catalina. Looked back at him. David sighed.
