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But then, have I?

“It’s not your fault, baby,” she says, entwining her hand with mine.

The writing on the gravestone is still visible.

Eric Alexander Warren

1965-2008

Father, husband, and friend

Gone but never forgotten

A lump forms in my throat, eyes prickling.

“I miss him,” I admit through a tight throat.

“I know,” she sighs, resting her head on my arm.

After a few moments of silence, she steps forward, placing the brightly coloured—in contrast to the wilted flowers—blossoms on top of the rust-coloured shrubs.

“I know he’s proud of you.”

I raise my eyebrow at her. “Really?”

She snorts. “Aside from all the crime.” She whispers the last word. “But proud, no doubt.”

I sigh as I wrap my arm around her. “Do you ever wonder about your dad?”

She shakes her head. “I never knew my dad. He left when my mum announced her pregnancy. She was always happy single; there was never a man in our house. I’ve never had a father figure.”

I think about my future children, a pang of guilt hitting me in the chest. I could never leave, would never leave Camila, let alone my own children.

“We’ll get his grave cleaned up,” she promises.

We head back towards the car in the crisp morning air.

My father might not be here anymore, but in this moment, I feel him. I feel the sorrow, the apology, and the pride.

Walking back through the open black gates feels like closure.

Epilogue

Xander - 1 Year Later

Awaitress brings over a tray of two half-full whisky glasses and one filled with water. She places it down in the middle of the green, baize-lined table. Silence stretches between Jac and me and the two men sitting opposite us.

I incline my head towards the alcohol-filled glasses, offering them up to the two Russians. One with a shaved head, tattoos stretching over his head and down his forehead. The other one is older—grey moustache and thinning, slicked-back hair.

Jac taps his finger on the poker table, rings glinting in the single dim light shining above us.

“Fair,” Jac starts in response to the Russians, grabbing his glass of water and sipping on it.

“A little disrespectful, don’t you think?” I muse, leaning back in my seat.

“We don’t have a lot of time. Please, what do you want from us?” The older man waves his hand in our direction, his thick Russian accent echoing through the empty casino room at DL.

Jac slams his glass down on the table, making the clean-shaved guy flinch. “You’re here on behalf of the Mozorovs, correct?”