The mausoleum looks different at midnight.
I’ve been here once before—at sixteen, when the world still made sense. My grandmother’s funeral. I remember clutching my mother’s hand while my father stood beside us, silent and unbreakable. Back then, death belonged to old people who had lived long lives.
I didn’t know that within a year, I would be the only one left.
“You’re sure about this?” Lorenzo asks beside me. Dressed in black, he blends into the shadows. His men wait outside the gates; some things require privacy.
“I’m sure.” My father’s letter presses against my hip. *Where the angels weep.* I finally understood what he meant—this place, Vault 13, my mother’s lullaby.
The iron gate creaks as Lorenzo picks the lock with practiced ease. Another secret about my husband filed away for
