Emerald Eyes

Chapter 1 - The Funeral

WARNING: ​​This story contains mature themes including strong language and violence. Reader discretion is advised.

My white-knuckled hand drops the lily onto a mahogany coffin. Grandma is gone. The only person who truly understood me. Fingers scrunched into balls, I swallow hard.

Get a grip, Alex.

The wet, cold, gnawing hole in the earth threatens to devour me too. I sway on unsteady legs, ready to give in to the encroaching mental darkness, when a pair of shoes with a patent leather design comes into view. Louboutin.

"Prehu ne paqe," a deep and resonant voice says.

Rest in peace.

Each syllable drips with a velvety smoothness. It commands attention with every Albanian word uttered, despite the poor pronunciation.

My gaze meets a pair of dark green eyes. A tall, striking, handsome man in an impeccable, tailored black suit stands before me. His hair, a raven's wing in its darkest hue, cascades in waves. It makes me want to run my hand through it.

A smile full of warmth curls his lips. "I'm sorry for your loss. Are you part of the immediate family?"

"She was my grandmother."

"Oh, I didn't know she had a granddaughter. You have her eyes." His warm palms offer a firm, comforting handshake. The heat of the electrifying jolt penetrates my body, giving me the strength necessary to stand upright.

"My condolences again."

"Th-thank you," I stutter.

He nods, then tilts his head with grace, as if studying me. Hot flush invades my cheeks as his gaze lingers on my breasts for a second too long.

Who is he?

"Alexandra." My mother's stern voice cracks through my thoughts like a whip. Her dark eyes assess the man with utter disapproval, and her steel grasp pulls me to our rented cloud-gray Ford Focus.

"Alexandra." The mysterious stranger's gruff tone echoes my name.

***

The city of Dublin is washed out, the sky draped in a quilt of gray clouds. They hang low, offering an Irish goodbye for my beloved grandma. The wake gathers at a local pub, the atmosphere a mix of sorrow and bittersweet celebration. Nestled in the heart of town, the dim space's weathered wooden furnishings give off a cozy and rustic ambiance. Adorned with pictures of my grandmother, capturing her life and the memories she and Mother shared. The scents of shepherd's pie, beef stew and Yorkshire puddings fill the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses.

Mother welcomes guests by the entrance with a twinkle in her eye, ready to share a joke or a heartfelt story about Grandma. She must have known these people since she was a little girl.

I sit at a corner table, feeling a bit better after a bowl of strong Irish stew. That's when I see him again. The Black Suit exudes an air of mystery and danger. The room fills with an electric buzz as our eyes lock across the crowded bar, its patrons blurring under the intensity of his decisive emerald gaze bores into mine. He strides closer with swift, long steps, his chiseled, copper-stubbled jaw tense.

He's gorgeous.

A sharp, briny scent of the sea lingers around him, transporting me to the rugged natural beauty of the Adriatic sea coast from my childhood days. His presence is tempting, like a faraway dream. A desperate escape from this fast-enveloping cloak of grief.