Chapter Fourteen: Approaching Noon

The news of Alberto’s death spread throughout Winster with incredible speed. All the major newspapers and radio stations in Winster raced to cover the story. On one hand, there was Anya’s financial backing; on the other, Alberto’s deep-rooted influence in Winster was undeniable. As a mafia boss, his reputation extended not only through the underworld but also into political circles.

His death, the recent turmoil surrounding the Poleta family, and the string of killings in Winster became the city’s hottest topics almost overnight. At the center of all the speculation and gossip was one man: Ethan Poleta.

The youngest son of the Poleta family, he was said to have single-handedly saved the family from ruin. He had become a legend. Many eagerly awaited the funeral the next day, hoping for a glimpse of him.

The following day arrived promptly. At dawn, cars had already begun pulling up outside the Poleta estate. But Ethan was already up, having washed and eaten a simple breakfast. The earliest arrivals were Poleta’s subordinates and lieutenants. Eugeneid, as predicted, arrived early, his car among the first five.

Because Alberto was not religious—or more accurately, because most people in the New World were not particularly devout—Ethan did not invite clergy. Instead, following the customs of their ancestral home in Maplewood, the body was kept at home for a day to allow friends and family to pay their respects.

Ethan wore another black suit that day, a white rose tucked into his breast pocket. He stood solemnly before Alberto’s coffin, awaiting visitors.

One by one, the heads of the Poleta family arrived. Ethan quietly counted them. So far, they were all familiar faces; those who had been absent the day before had yet to appear.

By ten o’clock, those who had been missing the previous day still had not come. Instead, someone Ethan was eager to see arrived: First Mate Carlos.

Carlos also wore somber formal attire, clearly placing great importance on the funeral. The night before, Ethan had inquired discreetly with Viren about Carlos.

He had once been part of the Poleta family, having joined around the age of fifteen or sixteen. Though older now, he was considered an outer member of the clan. Originally, he had little interaction with Alberto unless he rose through the ranks to become a leader.

But once, Carlos had gotten into serious trouble—so severe he nearly lost his life. Upon hearing this, Alberto had saved him and sent him out of Winster, a significant favor that Carlos never forgot. In a sense, Carlos represented the Poleta family’s maritime branch.

“Master Ethan, I truly did not expect…” Carlos’s grief was restrained but genuine—a sadness that was palpable, though not overwhelming. “I had planned to visit these past couple of days, but I never imagined Lord Poleta would leave us so soon.”

“Life is unpredictable,” Ethan said, clasping his hand. “Please accept my condolences.”

“Please join us in the garden for some refreshments. I have something I wish to discuss with you shortly.”

Indeed, Ethan had matters he wanted to discuss with Carlos. He had not forgotten the conversation between Joan and Fred. The Prohibition had begun—an opportunity not to be missed.

After Carlos went to the garden, more visitors arrived. Most were no longer from the Poleta family but leaders from other clans and prominent figures across Winster, including the heads of the Five Families.

The first to arrive was George Evans, head of the Evans family. Unlike the Maplewood immigrants, he was a native, his ancestors having come to the New World over a century ago. His family’s history here was long, though their presence in Winster only spanned three generations.

Compared to the Maplewood mafia, the Evans family wielded more influence in business, focusing on real estate and trendy merchandise. Naturally, they coveted the port’s business, and opening maritime routes had long been their ambition.

George exchanged brief condolences before heading to the garden, making no mention of Tony, who was still absent.

Next came the Coleon family, true Maplewood immigrants who had arrived earlier and even participated in Winster’s development. They held significant sway in the hotel industry, owning over half the luxury hotels in the northern district.

Their leader, elderly, did not attend; instead, his second son Danny—the actual heir—came in his stead. Like the others, Danny offered polite condolences but feigned sorrow. Francis was also absent.

By shortly after eleven, most of Winster’s notable figures had arrived, and the vigil was nearing its end.

After the midday luncheon and completion of the rites, Alberto would be laid to rest in the cemetery.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside—voices murmuring, restrained sighs. Sandro had arrived.

Sandro, the head of the Conti family and leader of the Saints—the undisputed king of Winster’s underworld—was expected to attend. His arrival alone spoke volumes about his immense influence.

Along the way, many greeted him or tried to strike up conversation, but he offered no response beyond nodding briefly in acknowledgment.

When he finally entered the mourning hall, Ethan caught sight of the man who truly ruled Winster’s shadows.

Sandro’s appearance was surprisingly ordinary—his face the kind lost in a crowd, unrecognizable. Short in stature, he lacked any regal bearing. His left foot was slightly limp.

Yet, despite this, no one dared obstruct his path; people instinctively stepped aside to look up to him.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Ethan. I am deeply saddened by your father’s passing,” Sandro said slowly as he clasped Ethan’s hand, his tone measured. There was a trace of genuine sorrow, yet also an unreadable distance.

He did not mention Ethan’s killing of Joan, the breach of the truce, or the subsequent murder of Fred. After exchanging pleasantries, Sandro moved toward the garden.

His grip was light, his hand cold and clammy with sweat, almost sticky.

Watching the limping middle-aged man leave the hall, Ethan narrowed his eyes before stepping outside himself.

The sunlight was unusually brilliant today—so bright it was almost blinding—a rare autumn spectacle in Winster.

Gazing at the sun, Ethan suddenly asked Eugeneid, who was by his side, “Is it almost noon?”

“Almost, five more minutes,” Eugeneid replied.

Midday was at hand.