I Paid for His Father’s Funeral With His Money

That afternoon, I oversaw the discreet transfer of Don Vittorio’s body from the clinic to the family’s private chapel.

The clinic director, a man who knew better than to ask questions, finally murmured one as we left.

“Your husband… the heir… he is not coming?”

I offered a thin, bitter smile.

“He is detained.”

The words tasted like ash.

I’d visited Vittorio just the day before. He’d been complaining of chest pains. I’d brought in the discreet Swiss cardiologist, not the family’s usual butcher. After the check-up, Vittorio had pulled me aside, his voice low.

“I spoke to Antonio. He agreed. When I return from Lake Como, you two will go to the chapel. A proper ceremony. Then the legal papers. It’s time.”

Hope, fragile and dangerous, had bloomed in my chest. He’d always refused, saying vows were for fools and business was binding enough.

Seeing my face, Vittorio had patted my hand, his eyes old and weary.

“You are a good woman, Sofia. My son… he is spoiled. Be patient. Build your life.”

Now, that life was shattered glass.

I was finalizing the funeral arrangements with the undertaker when my phone buzzed—seventeen missed calls from Antonio.

I called back.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Sofia!” he roared. “You canceled my cards? Do you have any idea the scene you caused? I was in a goddamn boutique in Gstaad! The manager looked at me like I was some common thief!”

“My money is not your personal fund for Chiara’s shopping sprees, Antonio.”

Silence. He wasn’t used to pushback.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me. The family’s funds are not for your girlfriend’s legal fees or her new wardrobe. The account you tapped was for payroll. You compromised our people’s security.”

He sputtered.

“You’re… you’re actually angry? Over money? Sofia, it’s nothing! A rounding error! And I only brought the card you gave me. How am I supposed to get home? I even bought you a gift! You’ve embarrassed me!”

There it was. The faux apology, the crumb of a gift, designed to shut me up and make me compliant. It had worked for years.

Not anymore. The weight of his father’s coffin was heavier.

“Your father’s funeral is in three days,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “If you care to pay your respects, be there.”

I moved to hang up.

“Wait!” His tone shifted, a crack of uncertainty. “The same lie? This is about the money, isn’t it? The half-million? You’re that petty?”

“This is about your father being dead, Antonio.”

He exploded.

“Shut up! Don’t you dare say that! My father is on a business trip! You disgusting, lying—”

“Chiara ran him down. The clinic declared him dead. Who exactly do you think is lying?”

He gave a harsh, disbelieving laugh.

“Now you drag Chiara into your fantasies? Fine. You want proof? I’ll call him right now. On video!”

I heard fumbling, then the digital ringtone of a video call connecting.