It was raining. Dark clouds hung low over the city, draping it in grief. At five o’clock, the cemetery lay silent except for the whisper of rain on marble. It was a funeral.

William stood beside his wife, both dressed in black. His men surrounded them, holding umbrellas like sentinels against the storm.

Two days had passed since his father — William Beeman Sr., the formidable head of the family — had fallen in a hail of bullets. Now the mantle rested on William Jr.’s shoulders. He was the new head of the Beeman empire — of blood, of legacy, of crime.

His wife watched him quietly. She could see the shift already taking shape — the softness leaving his eyes, his heart hardening beneath the rain. He was changing, reshaping himself into the man his world demanded: rougher, angrier, colder.

This was the birth of the new Beeman. This was the price of power.