Ricardo Velasquez’s Burial
557 Words
Chapter 8
Elena Velasquez’s Point of View
Rain fell softly over the cemetery of San Ignacio Memorial Park.
Gray clouds covered the skies of Gumora while black umbrellas surrounded the freshly opened grave where Ricardo Velasquez would soon be buried.
The atmosphere felt heavy.
Not only with grief, but with fear.
I stood beside my husband’s coffin wearing a black dress, my hands trembling while the priest continued his prayers. Around me were relatives, business partners, political acquaintances, and family friends pretending to mourn while secretly whispering about what had happened.
Execution.
Ambush.
Syndicate retaliation.
Nobody said the words openly.
But everyone knew.
My son Adrian stood beside me silently, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned pale. My younger daughter Sofia could no longer stop crying as relatives attempted to comfort her.
Meanwhile, reporters and photographers waited outside the cemetery gates like scavengers.
Even death could not give us peace.
The priest slowly raised his hand.
“May the Lord receive the soul of Ricardo Velasquez into eternal peace…”
His voice echoed softly across the cemetery while the sound of distant thunder rolled through the skies.
Then suddenly, I noticed them.
Several men standing quietly beneath black umbrellas a few meters away from the burial crowd.
Wearing black suits.
Expressionless.
Watching.
Not grieving.
Observing.
My chest tightened immediately.
I recognized one of them.
Algene.
One of Don Juan Gonzalo’s most trusted men.
Fear instantly spread through my body like ice.
They came here not to mourn.
They came to send a message.
Adrian noticed them too.
His face darkened with anger.
“Those bastards…” he whispered.
I immediately grabbed his arm tightly.
“No,” I said sharply.
“But Mom!”
“Not here.”
Because deep down, I understood something my son still refused to accept.
The men standing there represented power far greater than revenge.
Don Juan Gonzalo did not need to attend personally.
His presence was already enough.
The priest continued praying while workers slowly prepared the coffin for lowering.
Sofia collapsed into tears beside me.
“He didn’t deserve this…” she cried helplessly.
I embraced her tightly while trying to remain strong for my children.
But inside, I was breaking apart.
Ricardo was not a perfect man.
I knew his arrogance.
His gambling.
His dangerous connections.
But he was still my husband.
And now he lay motionless inside a polished wooden coffin while the city whispered about his death like entertainment.
As the coffin slowly descended into the grave, many guests lowered their heads respectfully.
Others quietly avoided eye contact with the men standing in the distance.
Nobody wanted trouble.
Especially not trouble connected to the Gonzalo empire.
Then one of Juan’s men stepped forward slightly and placed a white flower near the grave before silently stepping back again.
No words.
No threats.
Nothing direct.
Yet somehow, the gesture felt more terrifying than violence itself.
Because everyone understood the meaning.
This burial existed because Don Juan Gonzalo allowed it to.
Thunder echoed once more above the cemetery.
The priest finished his final prayer.
And as mourners slowly began leaving one by one, I glanced once more toward the men in black suits.
Still watching.
Still silent.
Like shadows sent by a king reminding us all of one terrible truth:
In Gumora, even grief belonged to powerful men.
- Writer
