Grief is a terrible moment in life, one that most of us dread. But what we often fail to grasp is the extent to which it can transform a person's life. I lost my father to grief.
Three years ago, we lost my mother to cancer. It was hard on all of us, but it was hardest on him. My father had been with her through the darkest nights, holding her hand through endless chemo sessions. She wasn't just his wife; she was his high school sweetheart, his best friend, his business partner—his everything. And when she passed, he lost it all.
On the day of my mother's funeral, after everyone had left, my father stayed behind. Hours later, I found him sitting alone by her fresh grave. He looked broken, and so was I. I sat beside him in silence. Eventually, he spoke: "Your mother was brave—she fought hard."
That night, he started drinking. I wanted to talk to him about it, but I told myself to wait a few days, thinking he'd stop on his own. He didn't. It got worse. He abandoned his responsibilities at the company and became a shell of himself, consumed by despondency and hopelessness.
Two years later, he suddenly woke up one morning, showered, shaved, and got dressed. I heard noises from the garage and went downstairs to find him. "I'm going to work," he said. That evening, he came home looking better, more alive. He talked with us for hours, and for a moment, it felt like we had him back.
The next night, he took out his Bugatti—the car he adored. He never came back.
The police said he was speeding when he collided with oncoming traffic. Not long after we buried him, I received an email. It was a suicide note.
Dear Alexander,
I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry it's come to this. If you're reading this, then you know about the accident. I wasn't strong enough. I took the easy way out. I'm joining your mother.
I wish I could explain my selfishness. Take care of yourself, Emma, and Tom.
Love,
Dad
I didn't know how to feel. A part of me blamed myself for his death. That night, I drank for the first time, hoping to drown the gut-wrenching pain inside me. It didn't work.
The next morning, still hungover, I reread the email. I debated whether to tell Emma and Tom. They were with Aunt Margaret and coping relatively well. If they found out the accident was actually a suicide, it would devastate them. I decided to keep it to myself.
Robert, my father's close friend and associate, reached out to me not long after. He had been the acting CEO of my father's company. We arranged to meet at a café.
As always, I wore a suit. I drove my Porsche to the meeting. "I'm sorry for your loss, Alexander," Robert began. "Losing both parents in such a short time is unimaginable." I thanked him, and he continued. "Your father had an arrangement in place in case of such an event. His shares and position as CEO were meant to be passed to you. The lawyer will contact you soon. I want you to know that I'm here to support you, just as I supported your father. But if you decide otherwise, I'll resign without hesitation." I didn't know what to say. It all felt overwhelming. I told Robert to continue with his responsibilities for now and that I'd let him know my decision soon.
On my way home, I stopped at a bar and ordered whiskey, neat. The bartender struck up a conversation.
"Long day at work?" she asked.
"I got a job," I replied.
"Congratulations," she said with a smile.
"Thanks," I muttered, but the weight of the situation hit me hard. I had inherited a massive responsibility, a legacy my father had groomed me for. But I had my own ambitions—dark ones that had been growing louder in my mind.
Years ago, I decided I wanted to be king. Not in the traditional sense, but in the underworld. Back then, I didn't understand the logistics of such a dream. As I grew older, I studied the power dynamics of that world. I trained my body—learning Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai, and marksmanship. I mastered knives, firearms, and self-defense. I studied laws and psychology, preparing myself for the harsh realities of that life.
Sitting at the bar that night, I realized it was time to execute my plan.