The news of Alberto’s death spread swiftly across all of Wenster.
Newspapers and radio stations in Wenster were all racing to report on this event.
On one hand, it was indeed Anya who spent money on this, and on the other hand, Alberto did have a significant influence in Wenster.
As a Mafia boss, he was not only well-known in the underground world but also had so connections in the political field.
His death, along with the recent turmoil within the Bolita family and the serial killings in Wenster City, quickly beca the hottest topic.
The center of the discussions always inevitably revolved around one person, and that person was Ethan.
Ethan Polleta.
The youngest son of the Bolita family, it is said that he single-handedly saved the family from being wiped out.
He has now beco a legendary figure.
Many people are waiting for tomorrow’s funeral to catch a glimpse of his deanor.
The next day arrived on ti.
At dawn, cars were already arriving outside the Bolita family’s estate.
However, Ethan had gotten up, washed, and had a simple breakfast.
The earliest arrivals were the various heads under the Bolita family; Eugene was indeed early, his car was among the first five.
Since Alberto didn’t believe in religion, or rather, most people in the New Continent don’t believe in religion, Ethan didn’t invite anyone from the Church.
Instead, following the customs of Fengcui’s hotown, they kept the vigil at ho for a day, allowing friends and relatives to co and pay their respects.
Together with his black suit today, Ethan inserted a white rose in his breast pocket, standing before Alberto’s coffin, waiting for visitors.
The heads of the Bolita family arrived one after another, and Ethan was counting their numbers silently.
So far, they were all familiar faces; those he hadn’t seen yesterday hadn’t shown up yet.
Up until ten o’clock, those absent yesterday hadn’t appeared; instead, soone Ethan wanted to see showed up.
First officer Carlos.
He was dressed very formally and solemnly today, clearly taking this funeral very seriously.
Last night, Ethan had already subtly inquired about Carlos through Virel.
Previously, he was also part of the Bolita Clan, joining the family around fifteen or sixteen years old; he was sowhat old, so he was considered an outer mber.
Originally, he had no connection with Alberto unless he could climb up the ranks to beco a head.
Then one ti, he caused so trouble, quite critical, nearly life-threatening.
Alberto heard about it and still protected him, sending him out of Wenster.
This was quite a favor, so Carlos always rembered it; he is also, in so sense, a branch force of the Bolita Clan at sea.
"Young Master Ethan, I really didn’t expect..." Carlos maintained his grief well—not imnse sorrow, but a real sadness was shown.
"I thought of coming to visit these days, but unexpectedly Mr. Bolita just passed away like this."
"The world is unpredictable." Ethan shook his hand.
"You too, take care."
"Please enjoy so food in the garden, later I have sothing to discuss with you."
Ethan indeed had sothing to discuss with him.
He won’t forget Joan and Fred’s conversation from that day.
The prohibition started, presenting an unmissable opportunity.
After Carlos went to the garden, others continued to arrive; later, the attendees were no longer predominantly people from the Bolita family, but more from other family heads, and figures from various sectors in Wenster City.
And, the leaders of the five major families.
The first to arrive was George Evans, the leader of the Evans Clan.
He was not a Fengcui immigrant, but a local native whose ancestors ca to the New Continent over a hundred years ago; his family history in the New Continent is long-standing, although their presence in Wenster is relatively recent, within three generations.
Compared to the Fengcui Green Mafia, his local Mafia power was more in the business sector, with main businesses in real estate and various trendy products.
Therefore, he was particularly covetous of the dock business, making connections via sea routes was always the lifelong pursuit of the Evans Clan.
George exchanged a few pleasantries, expressed sadness, and went to the garden, without ntioning anything about Tony.
And Tony, has yet to arrive.
Next ca the Corleone family.
They were indeed proper Fengcui immigrants, arriving earlier, even participating in Wenster’s developnt, so they had significant influence in the hotel industry, owning more than half of the luxury hotels in the North District.
However, the leader of the Corleone family was getting old, so the second son of the current generation’s leader, Danny, ca instead, effectively the heir.
Similarly, Danny didn’t address anything about Francis; he just exchanged pleasantries, feigned sadness.
Francis also didn’t yet appear.
Past eleven o’clock, notable figures from Wenster City had mostly arrived, and the vigil ceremony was nearing completion.
After the noon banquet, once the ceremony concluded, Alberto would be sent to the cetery to rest in peace.
Suddenly, a commotion sounded outside, filled with voices of discussion and unavoidable sighs.
Sandro had arrived.
Sandro had finally arrived.
As the leader of the Conte family and the head of five major families, the underworld saint Sandro’s presence at the funeral was befitting.
Just from this clamor, one could sense Sandro’s imnse influence.
All the way, people greeted him, others tried to cozy up, talk to him; he didn’t respond, usually just nodding in acknowledgnt.
Until he entered the hall, Ethan finally saw the face of the undisputed ruler of Wenster’s underground world.
Sandro looked surprisingly ordinary; his face belonged to the type lost in a crowd, unrecognizable.
He was sowhat short, lacking any domineering presence.
In fact, as he walked, his left foot was slightly la.
Yet such a person walked without anyone daring to obstruct, automatically stepping aside, able only to gaze at him.
"Ethan, I arrived late, I deeply apologize, your father’s death grieves ." Sandro slowly walked to Ethan, shook his hand, his tone calm and unhurried.
In his words, one could perhaps sense so sadness, or perhaps nothing at all.
Regarding Ethan’s killing of Joan, shattering the truce, and even killing Fred thereafter, he didn’t ntion a single word; after exchanging pleasantries, he also headed to the garden.
Even while shaking Ethan’s hand, he barely exerted pressure, his hand was cold, and seed to perspire, feeling clammy.
Moreover, sticky.
Watching this la middle-aged man leave the hall, Ethan couldn’t resist squinting, and then followed him out.
Today’s sunshine was surprisingly good, dazzlingly so, quite rare for autumn in Wenster.
Gazing at the sun, Ethan suddenly asked Eugene beside him, "Is it almost noon?"
"Almost, just five more minutes."
Noonti was imminent.
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