Chapter Text
Sunday at the Kennedy Table
Leon’s POV
The first thing Leon S. Kennedy noticed every morning wasn’t the ache in his shoulder.
Wasn’t the old scar tissue pulling across his ribs.
Wasn’t the silver beginning to thread through blondish-brown hair he still kept just a little too long.
No.
It was him.
Leon lay still in the half-dark of their bedroom, his piercing blue eyes soft as dawn filtered through sheer linen curtains, painting pale gold across cream-colored walls and hardwood floors polished enough to catch the light.
And there—
Curled into his side like he’d belonged there his whole damn life—
It was Dominique.
Leon smiled before he could stop himself.
Twenty-seven years.
Twenty-seven goddamn years.
And somehow Dominique Ciel Kennedy still managed to knock the breath out of him.
Domi slept on his stomach tonight, long curly brunette hair sprawled across the pillow like silk, one freckled shoulder exposed where the blanket had slipped. Jade green eyes hidden behind soft lashes. Petite body warm against his side. His beauty mole near the upper corner of his lip is still one of Leon’s favorite things on earth.
Maybe his favorite.
Leon reached out, calloused fingers brushing a curl from Domi’s face.
Dominique stirred.
A sleepy sound escaped him.
“Mmm…”
Leon’s mouth twitched.
“There he is.”
One jade eye cracked open.
Then the other.
Dominique looked at him and smiled.
God.
There it was.
The reason Leon still believed in heaven.
“Buongiorno, bello.”
Leon chuckled low.
“Still trying to sweet-talk me after twenty-seven years?”
Dominique stretched lazily, his Italian accent still soft after all this time.
“Worked the first time.”
Leon leaned down and kissed him slowly.
Warm.
Lazy.
Familiar.
Home.
When they pulled apart, Dominique rested his forehead against his.
“You were staring again.”
Leon smirked.
“I’m old.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m fifty.”
“You’re dramatic.”
Leon barked out a laugh.
“Same thing.”
Dominique’s fingers brushed the scar near Leon’s collarbone.
The humor faded from his expression.
“You slept okay?”
Leon knew what he meant.
Nightmares.
ARK.
Elpis.
Raccoon.
Spain.
China.
A lifetime of hell.
Leon smiled anyway.
“Best I’ve slept in years.”
Dominique studied him.
He always knew when Leon was lying.
Always.
But after all these years…
Sometimes love meant letting the lie breathe.
“Coffee?” Domi asked softly.
Leon kissed his forehead.
“Coffee.”
—
Their villa sat just outside Verona, tucked into rolling countryside with olive trees, wrought iron fencing, and enough land Leon could see trouble coming from half a mile away.
Old habits.
Some things never died.
Leon moved downstairs barefoot, gray thermal shirt hugging a body still hard from decades of combat. Tattoos peeked beneath rolled sleeves. Old scars crisscrossed skin like maps.
Proof.
The kitchen was enormous.
Two ovens.
Stone counters.
Copper pans.
The smell of espresso hit him first.
Then garlic.
Butter.
Fresh bread.
And just like that…
Leon was smiling again.
Dominique stood at the stove in loose linen pants and one of Leon’s old shirts.
And Christ.
Even now—
Leon wanted to drag him back upstairs.
Domi glanced over his shoulder.
Caught him staring.
Again.
Jade eyes sparkled.
“Behave.”
Leon poured espresso.
“No promises.”
Domi rolled his eyes.
“Kids are awake.”
Right on cue—
Heavy footsteps.
Then—
“Move—move—move!”
A blur of black curls flew into the kitchen.
Misako Beau Kennedy.
Twenty-four.
FBI.
Too damn smart for his own good.
Long curly black hair pulled back messily. Piercing ocean-blue eyes exactly like Leon’s. Freckles. Beauty mole near his lip.
“Mama, Sutton’s hogging the coffee.”
From the dining room—
A deep voice answered.
“He who wakes first drinks first.”
Leon smirked.
That’d be Sutton Brandon Kennedy.
Twenty-seven.
Homicide.
Built like trouble.
Looked way too much like Leon had at that age.
Blond waves.
Jade eyes from Domi.
Broad shoulders.
Alpha confidence.
And zero patience.
Then came lighter footsteps.
And Leon’s entire expression softened.
Ye Sol Brielle Kennedy entered wearing oversized pajamas, dark curls tied high, freckles dusting her cheeks.
Twenty-two.
FBI SVU.
Still somehow Leon’s baby girl.
“Morning, Daddy.”
Leon opened his arms instantly.
Ye Sol walked right into them.
Because no matter how old she got—
She’d always be his little girl.
Leon kissed the top of her head.
“Morning, principessa.”
Sutton made a fake gagging sound.
“Oh God.”
Ye Sol shot him a glare.
“Shut up.”
Mimi grinned.
“Dad’s favorite.”
Leon sipped coffee.
“Obviously.”
Three voices protested.
Dominique laughed.
And for one perfect moment…
Leon forgot.
Forgot blood.
Forgot monsters.
Forgot bodies.
Forgot screams.
Forgot what men were capable of.
For one perfect moment—
He was just Dad.
Just a husband.
Just home.
Then—
Sutton’s phone rang.
The entire room went quiet.
Leon felt it immediately.
Instinct.
The shift.
Sutton looked at the caller ID.
VERONA P.D.
His jaw tightened.
He answered.
“Kennedy.”
Silence.
Then—
Leon watched all color leave his son’s face.
Sutton stood slowly.
“What do you mean… carved?”
Dominique froze.
Ye Sol lowered her coffee.
Mimi looked up sharply.
Sutton’s jade eyes darkened.
“Don’t touch anything.”
A pause.
Then—
“I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
Leon stood.
Not as a father.
Not as a husband.
Not as home.
As something older.
Something sharper.
Something dangerous.
“What happened?”
Sutton grabbed his jacket.
For a second—
He looked young again.
Then the detective came back.
“There’s been a homicide.”
Leon’s voice dropped.
“Bad?”
Sutton met his father’s eyes.
And for the first time in years—
Leon saw something close to fear.
Sutton swallowed.
“…Dad.”
He hesitated.
Then quietly—
“They said whoever did it…”
He looked pale.
“…they arranged the body.”
Silence.
And somewhere deep in Leon’s bones—
Something old…
Something terrible…
Woke up.
Sutton holstered his weapon.
Grabbed his badge.
And headed for the door.
Leon watched him go—
Every instinct in his body screaming after him.
But he didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Not yet.
As the front door shut—
Leon looked out the kitchen window.
Toward Verona.
Toward shadows.
Toward something he prayed…
Hadn’t found his family.
And didn’t yet realize—
Hell already knew his name.
*
Sutton’s POV
Rain has always made Verona beautiful.
Sutton Brandon Kennedy hated that.
He hated the way it softened the city’s edges, how it turned ancient stone streets glossy beneath amber streetlamps, how it gathered in the cracks between centuries-old buildings like the city itself was weeping quietly and politely, too dignified to make a scene.
Verona looked romantic in the rain.
Poetic.
Holy, if someone was feeling dramatic enough.
But Sutton had worked homicide long enough to know rain did not cleanse blood.
It only thinned it.
Spread it.
Carried it into gutters where tourists would walk over it the next morning without ever knowing a person’s last breath had washed beneath their shoes.
His black sedan cut through narrow streets, windshield wipers dragging back and forth in a steady rhythm that did nothing to calm the pressure building behind his ribs.
The call had been wrong.
He knew that before he ever reached the scene.
Dispatch tried to sound professional. They always did. Calm voice. Controlled wording. Simple terms. Homicide. Unusual staging. Possible religious element. Scene secured.
But Sutton had heard the break.
The little hitch before the officer said, Detective, you need to see this.
People said that when words failed.
Sutton’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
He could still smell breakfast.
Espresso.
Butter.
Garlic.
Mama’s bread.
He could still hear Mimi laughing at something stupid Ye Sol said. Could still feel Dad’s eyes on him the second the phone rang.
That was the thing about being Leon Kennedy’s son.
You learned early that silence had weight.
His father did not need to yell to make a room still.
I did not need to ask twice.
Did not need to reach for a weapon for everyone to remember that beneath the soft voice and tired blue eyes was a man who had survived more hell than most people believed existed.
Sutton had grown up with that shadow.
Sometimes it protected him.
Sometimes it swallowed him.
Tonight, it sat in the passenger seat.
He exhaled hard through his nose and turned onto a side road blocked by police vehicles. Blue lights flashed against the wet stone. Uniforms moved like ghosts beneath rain slickers. Yellow tape snapped in the wind.
The crime scene sat near an old church tucked between residential buildings and the remains of a Roman wall. Nothing about it should have felt unusual. Verona was old. Everything was near something sacred, buried, or ruined.
But the air changed as soon as Sutton stepped out.
He felt it.
Not fear exactly.
Pressure.
Like the city was holding its breath.
An officer lifted the tape when he saw him.
“Detective Kennedy.”
Sutton ducked under it. “Who found the body?”
“Maintenance worker from the church. Came out to check the side gate after hearing something in the alley.”
“Did he see anyone?”
“No. Says he heard scraping. Like metal on stone.”
Sutton glanced toward the alley.
Narrow.
Dark.
Old brick on one side, church wall on the other.
Rainwater ran down the center like a thin black vein.
“How long ago?”
“Call came in at 6:12.”
Sutton checked his watch. 6:41.
Good response time.
Bad scene control.
Half the uniforms looked sick.
He moved past them.
His partner, Matteo Ricci, stood beneath the edge of a forensic tent, jaw clenched, face pale beneath olive skin. He was older than Sutton by ten years, patient where Sutton was blunt, and usually unshakable in the way only detectives who had seen too many dead children could be.
Tonight, Matteo looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
That did not help the pressure in Sutton’s chest.
“Sutton,” Matteo said.
“What do we have?”
Matteo didn’t answer immediately.
Sutton hated that too.
He pulled gloves from his coat pocket and snapped them on.
“Matteo.”
His partner’s eyes flicked toward the tent.
“Male victim. Mid-thirties. No ID yet. Face intact enough for recognition, but…” He stopped.
“But?”
Matteo swallowed. “But that may be intentional.”
Sutton’s jaw flexed.
He stepped past him.
The first thing he saw was red.
Not blood.
Candles.
Dozens of them lined the alley walls, shielded from the rain beneath small iron coverings nailed into the stone. Their flames trembled gold and crimson, throwing warped shadows across the wet brick.
The second thing he saw was the body.
For one second, Sutton’s mind refused to organize it.
It was a man.
It had been a man.
He was kneeling.
No.
Not kneeling.
Positioned.
His body had been arranged on both knees in the middle of the alley, spine straight, head tilted upward toward the church wall as if he had died praying to stone. His arms were extended slightly at his sides, palms up, fingers curled as if waiting to receive communion.
His shirt had been cut open.
The skin of his chest was marked.
Not random.
Not frenzied.
Carved.
Sutton crouched slowly, ignoring the rain soaking through his coat.
“Christ,” someone whispered behind him.
Sutton didn’t look back.
The victim’s eyes were open.
That was the part that made his stomach turn before anything else.
Not the wounds.
Not the blood.
The eyes.
They were wide and glassy, fixed upward, pupils blown so large they swallowed nearly all color. His mouth hung open, but not in agony.
In awe.
Like whatever he saw before death had terrified him so badly his brain had mistaken it for divinity.
Sutton leaned closer.
The carvings ran across the chest in neat, deliberate lines. Latin letters cut deep enough to fill with blood.
He read them silently first.
Then again.
His breath slowed.
LIMBUS.
Limbo.
Something cold touched the base of his spine.
Not from the rain.
“Tell me you documented before anyone touched him.”
Matteo nodded. “Photos started immediately. Forensics is waiting on you.”
Sutton stood, his gaze scanning the alley.
Candles.
Body.
Church wall.
Old stone.
The victim faced east.
Intentional.
Everything here was intentional.
“Cause of death?” he asked.
“Forensics won’t confirm yet.”
“Guess.”
Matteo rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Massive blood loss. But Sutton… there are injection marks.”
Sutton looked at him sharply. “Where?”
“Neck. Left side. Behind the ear too.”
That made no sense.
Sutton moved around the body, careful not to step into blood pooled beneath the victim’s knees. He crouched behind him.
There.
Tiny punctures.
Two of them.
Clean.
Precise.
Medical.
The rest of the scene looked ritualistic, but that?
That looked clinical.
“Any signs of struggle?”
“Not in the alley.”
“Meaning he was killed somewhere else?”
“Maybe. Or he came willingly.”
Sutton stared at the dead man’s open palms.
Willingly.
No.
Not with those eyes.
Nobody willingly looked like that.
He stood and turned toward the church wall.
That was when he saw the writing.
Not on the body.
On the stone behind it.
Carved into the old wall with something sharp enough to bite through centuries.
The letters were large.
Uneven in places.
Fresh pale stone showed beneath old grime.
Sutton walked closer.
Rain ran over the words like tears.
PER ME SI VA NE LA CITTÀ DOLENTE.
His throat tightened.
He knew enough Italian literature because Mama had insisted all of them know enough. Dante had been in their house the way scripture lived in other homes. Dominique quoted poetry when cooking. Dad pretended not to understand and then finished the lines under his breath when he thought nobody heard.
Sutton knew what it meant.
Through me you go into the city of woe.
He took one step back.
Then another.
Matteo came to stand beside him.
“You know it?”
Sutton nodded slowly.
“It’s from Dante.”
“The Divine Comedy?”
“Inferno.”
Matteo cursed under his breath.
Sutton’s eyes remained on the wall.
“Not just Inferno,” he said quietly. “The inscription on the gate of Hell.”
Thunder rolled over Verona.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Sutton turned back to the body.
Limbo.
The first circle.
His pulse picked up.
“Did anyone call this into Rome? Federal?”
“Not yet. Captain wanted your eyes first.”
“Why?”
Matteo’s expression shifted.
That was when Sutton realized there was more.
“What else?”
Matteo looked toward a young officer standing near the mouth of the alley. The officer looked away quickly.
Sutton’s patience snapped.
“Matteo.”
His partner lowered his voice.
“There was something in his mouth.”
Sutton went still.
“What?”
“A strip of paper.”
“Where is it?”
“Evidence bag. Over here.”
Sutton followed him to a portable evidence table beneath the tent. A forensic tech held up a clear bag.
Inside was a narrow piece of parchment.
Not paper.
Parchment.
Old-looking, but that meant nothing. Anyone could fake age.
The writing on it was black.
Sutton leaned in.
THE FIRST CIRCLE OPENS.
Beneath it, in smaller script:
THE LION WILL COME.
For a moment, the alley dropped away.
Rain.
Voices.
Radios.
All of it went distant.
The lion.
Sutton felt something old and ugly open inside his chest.
His family had been called many things.
Kennedy.
Agent.
Survivor.
Weapon.
Legacy.
But in their house, in their bloodline, in the stories Mama told with a smile and Dad endured with red ears—
Leon had always been the lion.
Il leone.
His father.
Sutton lifted his gaze slowly.
“Who saw this?”
“Me. Captain. Forensics.”
“No press?”
“Not yet.”
“Keep it that way.”
Matteo’s eyes sharpened. “Sutton—”
“Keep. It. That. Way.”
His voice came out colder than he intended.
A few officers looked over.
Sutton didn’t care.
Matteo stepped closer. “You think this is about your father?”
Sutton stared at the evidence bag.
He wanted to say no.
Wanted to say it was a coincidence.
A line from Dante. A lion. Verona. Italy. Ritual murder. Any lunatic could stitch symbols together and make them look important.
But Sutton had grown up in the aftermath of impossible things.
He knew coincidence was often just the first mask horror wore.
“I don’t know,” he said.
That was the truth.
It was not the comforting truth.
Matteo crossed himself.
Sutton looked at him.
“You scared?”
Matteo gave a humorless laugh. “I’m Catholic. Italian. And standing in front of a corpse carved with Dante while someone announces Hell is opening. Yes, Kennedy. I’m a little scared.”
Sutton almost smiled.
Almost.
Then a shout rang from the far end of the alley.
“Detective!”
Sutton turned.
One of the forensic techs knelt near a drainage grate.
“We found something else.”
Sutton walked over, careful of marked evidence flags.
The tech pointed a gloved finger toward the grate.
Wedged between iron bars was something small and black.
At first, Sutton thought it was cloth.
Then the tech pulled it free with tweezers.
A feather.
No.
Not feather.
Synthetic fiber shaped like one.
Black.
Slick.
The tip was stained red.
Matteo leaned in. “Costume?”
“Maybe,” Sutton said.
But his gut said no.
He looked back toward the body.
Candles.
Latin.
Parchment.
A staged victim.
A synthetic black feather.
A dead man facing a church wall with the words from the gates of Hell carved above him.
This was not a homicide.
This was theater.
And whoever had built the stage wanted an audience.
Sutton’s phone buzzed in his coat.
For one wild second, he thought it was Dad.
It wasn’t.
Unknown number.
He frowned.
“Unknown,” Matteo said.
Sutton answered but said nothing.
At first there was only static.
Then breathing.
Slow.
Wet.
Close to the receiver.
Sutton lifted a hand, signaling Matteo to stay quiet.
A voice came through.
Male.
Soft.
Almost gentle.
“Detective Kennedy.”
Sutton’s spine stiffened.
Matteo saw his expression and immediately motioned for a trace.
Sutton kept his voice flat.
“Who is this?”
The man sighed.
Like Sutton had disappointed him.
“You stand at the first threshold, and still you ask the wrong question.”
Sutton’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“What do you want?”
A pause.
Then a quiet laugh.
Not mocking.
Pleased.
“What every shepherd wants, my son.”
Sutton’s blood ran colder.
“To gather what has strayed.”
The call ended.
Sutton yanked the phone from his ear.
“Trace it.”
Matteo was already moving. “On it.”
But Sutton knew.
Burner.
Spoofed.
Gone.
His pulse thudded hard in his ears.
My son.
The way the man had said it—
Not casually.
Not as a phrase.
Like a blessing.
Like ownership.
Sutton turned back toward the victim.
For the first time since arriving, he allowed himself to really look at the man’s face.
Mid-thirties.
Brown hair.
Scruff.
No obvious defensive wounds on the hands.
No visible restraints.
But his eyes…
God.
His eyes.
Sutton crouched again.
“What did you see?” he whispered.
The dead man stared past him.
Upward.
Toward stone.
Toward words.
Toward Hell.
A flash of memory struck Sutton so suddenly he almost lost his balance.
He was seven years old, sitting at the kitchen table with scraped knees and a bruised cheek because some kid at school had told him his father was a monster.
He had punched the kid.
Hard.
Leon had been called in.
Sutton remembered sitting beside Dad in the truck afterward, furious and embarrassed, refusing to cry.
His father had not scolded him at first.
He had driven them home in silence.
Then he parked near the olive trees, cut the engine, and looked at him.
People will say things about me, Leon had said. Some of it will be true. Some of it won’t. But you don’t carry my ghosts for me, Sutton.
Sutton had glared down at his shoes.
But they said you killed people.
Leon had been quiet for a long time.
Then:
I did.
Sutton had looked up, shocked.
Dad’s face had been tired.
So tired.
And I saved people too. Sometimes those things happen in the same breath. But listen to me.
Leon had leaned closer, blue eyes steady.
You are not responsible for my sins.
Sutton had believed him then.
He wasn’t sure he believed him now.
Because someone had carved Hell into a wall and left a message for the lion.
And Sutton was standing in the blood.
His phone buzzed again.
This time it was Mimi.
Sutton stared at the screen.
He didn’t answer.
Not yet.
If he heard his brother’s voice, he might say too much. If he said too much, Mimi would hear everything underneath. Mimi had always been able to profile the living better than the dead. He could read Sutton’s silences like case files.
The buzzing stopped.
Then immediately started again.
Ye Sol.
His baby sister.
Sutton closed his eyes briefly.
No.
Not baby.
Twenty-two. FBI. SVU. Armed. Trained. Sharp as glass.
Still his baby sister.
He ignored that call too.
Matteo returned, face grim. “Couldn’t trace. Number’s dead already.”
“Of course it is.”
“You need to call your father.”
Sutton looked at him.
Matteo didn’t flinch.
“I mean it.”
“No.”
“Sutton—”
“No.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “There is a note referring to him.”
“There is a note referring to a lion. This is Verona. Half the city has lion symbols.”
“Don’t insult me.”
Sutton’s eyes flashed.
Matteo lowered his voice. “This is not ego. This is not you proving you can stand outside Leon Kennedy’s shadow. This is your father possibly being targeted by a religious psychopath staging ritual murders.”
Sutton stepped close.
“My father has been targeted by worse.”
“Exactly.”
The words hit too close.
Sutton looked away first.
Rain dripped from his hair onto his collar.
“I call him when I have facts.”
“You have a corpse.”
“I have theater.”
“You have a direct phone call.”
“I have a voice.”
“You have a message that says the lion will come.”
Sutton turned back, voice low. “And if that is exactly what they want?”
Matteo stopped.
Sutton pointed toward the body.
“This is bait. The candles. The quote. The parchment. The call. All of it. Whoever did this doesn’t just want us afraid. He wants us moving.”
Matteo’s expression shifted.
Sutton continued, calmer now.
“If I call my father and say someone is carving Dante into bodies and mentioning lions, he comes.”
“Yes.”
“No hesitation. No backup plan. No patience. He comes.”
Matteo’s silence was answer enough.
Sutton looked toward the alley entrance, beyond the tape, toward the city awakening under gray morning light.
“And maybe that’s the point.”
Another officer approached cautiously.
“Detective Kennedy?”
Sutton turned. “What?”
“We got our ID.”
He handed over a tablet.
Sutton read the name.
Enzo Bellini. Thirty-six. School administrator. Married. No criminal record. Reported missing yesterday evening by his wife.
Attached was a photograph.
A smiling man in a blue shirt with a small child on his shoulders.
Sutton looked from the photo to the body.
The dead did that sometimes.
They betrayed you with proof they had once been alive.
“Family notified?” he asked quietly.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll do it.”
Matteo looked at him. “You sure?”
“No,” Sutton said. “But I’ll do it.”
He handed the tablet back.
Then something in the report caught his eye.
“Wait.”
The officer froze.
Sutton took the tablet again and zoomed in on the missing person notes.
Last known location: charity clinic near San Zeno.
Complaint before disappearance: severe headache, insomnia, agitation.
Sutton read it twice.
Agitation.
His gaze lifted slowly.
“Matteo.”
His partner came over.
Sutton handed him the tablet.
“Look at the symptoms.”
Matteo read.
His face changed.
“You think he was sick?”
“I think he went to a clinic.”
“And ended up here?”
Sutton looked back at the puncture marks behind the victim’s ear.
Clinical.
Ritual.
Two hands working the same corpse.
One scientific.
One religious.
His stomach tightened.
“We need records from that clinic. Staff. Security footage. Patients. Everything.”
Matteo nodded. “I’ll get warrants moving.”
“No. Quietly.”
“Sutton—”
“Quietly.”
Matteo studied him, then nodded once.
Sutton stepped back into the rain.
Morning bells began to ring from somewhere beyond the alley.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each chime rolled over the city, deep and mournful.
He looked at the carved wall again.
Through me you go into the city of woe.
A warning.
An invitation.
A promise.
His phone buzzed a third time.
This time the screen read:
Dad
Sutton stared at it.
Rain struck the glass.
For a few seconds, he considered letting it ring.
Then he answered.
“Dad.”
Leon’s voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
“You ignored your brother and sister.”
Sutton closed his eyes.
Of course Mimi told him.
“I’m working.”
“What did you find?”
Sutton looked at the body.
Then the candles.
Then the words carved into stone.
He thought about lying.
He thought about breakfast.
Mama laughing at the stove.
Ye Sol tucked under Dad’s arm.
Mimi stealing coffee.
For one perfect morning, they had been whole.
Safe.
Untouched.
Sutton opened his eyes.
“It’s bad.”
Silence.
Then Leon said:
“How bad?”
Sutton swallowed.
And for the first time in his career—
He sounded like a son instead of a detective.
“Dad…”
His gaze locked on the parchment bagged beneath evidence lights.
THE LION WILL COME.
“They left a message for you.”
On the other end of the line, Leon said nothing.
But Sutton heard it anyway.
The shift.
The quiet click inside his father’s soul.
The old weapon waking up.
Sutton’s voice dropped.
“And I think this is only the first one.”
Rain fell harder.
The candles kept burning.
And beneath Verona, somewhere no one had found yet, something waited behind old stone doors.
Something patient.
Something hungry.
Something calling itself holy.
To Be Continued…