31. Ruslan
31
RUSLAN
ONE WEEK LATER
The earth swallows the sealed casket.
Tamara’s body had decomposed so much by the time I found her that the only way I was able to recognize her was through Lev's ring still on her finger.
The funeral home advised against a viewing. And I was inclined to agree.
There are some things that no-one should see.
I stand at the graveside, watching my nieces shatter in front of me. Mikayla's face is carved from stone, tears streaming silently down her cheeks while she steadies herself on Sofia's shoulders. Sofia sobs openly, her small frame shaking.
And little Stella clings to Aurora like she might disappear if she loosens her hold for even a second.
My wife holds them all together when I cannot.
Aurora's belly is more pronounced now, our twins growing inside her as she mothers three grieving girls who need her more than ever. Her hand strokes Stella's hair, whispering soft words I can't hear from where I stand.
I search the cemetery for Semyon's face, knowing he won't be here. But I look for him anyway.
His absence speaks volumes. The coward was content with watching his own niece die, but lacks the spine to see her buried.
Rage burns in me, tempered only by Aurora's gentle presence across from me.
The other pakhans stand in respectful silence. Voronin, Svarikov, Balakirev, Korsakov.
Even Potyomkin is here from Las Vegas.
And there, standing in the back among the fringes of the crowd is Gregor Belov. No longer the impressive godfather of the bratvas. He stands amidst the remaining pakhans of the Vori .
Among the undecided.
They're here to pay respects, but also to watch.
They want to gauge what happens next.
The priest finishes his prayer. Sofia's sob punctuates the silence. Mikayla raises her chin in defiance of her pain. For a moment, she looks just like her mother.
Aurora shifts Stella to one hip, her free hand reaching toward Mikayla, who takes it like a lifeline.
"Come," my wife says softly to my nieces, handing them each a clump of dirt to throw into the grave. "Your mother loved you. Never forget that."
Not "your mother was a monster" or "your mother betrayed us." Just the essential truth that matters to three grieving girls: Tamara loved them, despite everything else.
I watch Aurora guide them around the grave. And as each one tosses a handful of dirt within, a fresh wail of sorrow rises.
When the respects have been paid around Tamara's grave and the dirt is sealed, the other pakhans begin to gather around me as we make our way to the chapel for the funerary mass.
I notice Gregor hanging back, making no moves to join us, but that hardly matters now. Several of the undecided pakhans that had been at the fringe now drift toward me.
Potyomkin approaches first. I can't help a slight smile at the sight of Vera's delicate hand clasped firmly in his.
"My condolences for your loss, Ruslan Vitalyevich," Potyomkin says, his permanent scowl softening slightly. "The loss of family is always difficult."
I accept his words with a gracious nod. Everyone present knows the enmity between Tamara and myself. But the formality of mourning requires certain courtesies, even when they ring hollow.
Dmitri Balakirev sidles up beside me, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Now is the time, Ruslan. Most of the Vori are here. Gregor stands isolated." His eyes dart meaningfully toward the old man. "If you were to declare yourself pakhan of pakhans in this moment, no man would dare defy you."
Ivan Svarikov nods emphatically. "Dmitri Rodionovich is right. Tamara being buried without Semyon or any other Mikonov is telling. And Gregor's agreement with Semyon has left his influence at an all-time low." He gestures broadly. "The Vori are ready for new leadership."
But my eyes turn towards where my nieces stand with my mother and Aurora.
The opportunity before me is undeniable. With one declaration, I could cement my position. The Vori would follow. Gregor would not dare oppose me.
But to do so would require sending everyone other than the pakhans away. It would diminish this day of mourning, turning a funeral into a power play.
Worse, it would be a final insult to my nieces, who have just lost their mother.
"No," I say finally, watching Aurora gather the girls closer. "Not today."
Balakirev looks stunned. "But the opportunity?—"
"Will still exist tomorrow," I cut him off. "Today is for family."
Voronin's expression darkens as he grips my arm.
"The opportunity will not exist tomorrow," he hisses, his voice urgent. "By tomorrow, Gregor will shape a narrative to his liking. The moment must be now."
Korsakov nods, stepping closer. "The Vori are assembled. They watch for signs of weakness. If you delay, they'll interpret it as hesitation."
Their faces press in around me, and the funeral fades to background noise. I scan the graveyard again with new eyes. What I had taken as respect now feels like vultures circling.
"Declare yourself pakhan of pakhans," Voronin insists. "We will back you."
I stiffen, suddenly aware of the trap forming around me. These men aren't offering support.
They're issuing an ultimatum.
Take power now, on their terms, or lose their backing entirely.
If I refuse their push, they'll paint me as indecisive. Weak. Unable to seize the moment.
But if I give in...
I'd be turning my back on Aurora and my nieces when they need me most, forsaking family duty for bratva politics.
The realization chills me. These men view my devotion to family as weakness. They expect me to be my father's son: ruthless and cold, putting power above all else.
"Your father would have understood the necessity," Balakirev murmurs, as if reading my thoughts. "The girls will recover, but this opportunity?—"
I cut him off with a glare. "I am not my father."
The pakhans exchange glances, their expressions hardening.
"Perhaps we misjudged your readiness to lead," Voronin says, his voice dangerously low.
The threat remains unsaid, but his meaning is clear.
I meet his gaze squarely, refusing to be cowed. "I lack nothing except your poor timing, Alexei."
Then Potyomkin steps forward, his perpetual scowl shifting into something almost philosophical.
"Perhaps we're thinking of this wrong," he says. "To declare oneself pakhan of pakhans on a day of mourning would be..." he pauses, searching for the word. "Inappropriate. It would suggest that Ruslan Vitalyevich's ambition trumps his own respect for decorum."
I study Potyomkin's face, seeing the game behind his words. This isn't about respect. This is Potyomkin positioning himself as the voice of reason and tradition.
The power behind the throne.
They're all playing angles.
Balakirev and Voronin want immediate action to force my hand in the hopes that something might shift and open an opportunity for them. Svarikov wants me to be the borrowed knife that ends Gregor. Potyomkin advocates restraint to make himself indispensable.
None of them care about the three sobbing girls across the graveyard.
All they see is self-interest dressed in funeral black.
I glance over and see Vera making her way to Aurora and offering her comforts to my nieces. I see the other wives squatting down one by one to hug the grieving girls.
Why can't their husbands be like them?
Why can't they show just a shred of humanity?
Then, Aurora catches my eye, and that's when clarity hits me.
These men imbued me with power, and they expect to control me with it.
But by giving me power, I have the right to lord over them.
Which means…
"Vyacheslav Petrovich is right," I say. "Today isn't the day for coronations."
A panoply of emotions flash across the various men's faces. Disappointment. Anger. Annoyance.
"But it is a day for decisions." I straighten my shoulders, looking each pakhan in the eye. "A tsar does not become a tsar because his boyars demand it. But because he can act to protect those who serve him. Instead of naming myself pakhan of pakhans, I intend on calling for a vote among the Vori to go to war with Semyon and the Triads."
The circle of men goes completely still.
"War?" Balakirev whispers, his face paling. "Open war? We haven't done that since Gregor first brought all of us together."
"Are you afraid, Dmitri Rodionovich?" I ask him.
"N-no." He stammers. "I just wanted you to confirm that this is your decision."
"It is." I raise my chin defiantly at him. "Semyon had my brother and nephew murdered. He sent Triad soldiers into my home. They tried to kill my nieces." I gesture toward Tamara's grave. "He partnered with a man who killed the mother of those girls. The same man who tried to rape my wife. We've been at war for weeks. It's time we call it what it is."
Voronin stiffens. Sweat begins dotting his brow. "The Triads have numbers?—"
"And we have the guns," I cut him off. "My guns. Is this not why all of you agreed to stand by my side? Is this not why you wish to place that crown upon my head? So that these insults to our collective honor be met with the appropriate response?"
I watch their faces carefully. These men who imagine themselves masters of the west coast. Yet they flinch at the prospect of war.
"The Triads have numbers," Voronin repeats uselessly, his voice paper-thin now. "And they have reach beyond what we can?—"
"They have reach because we've allowed it," I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. "Because Gregor allowed it. Because we've all been content to stay in our lanes, build our little kingdoms, and pretend that the threats weren't growing."
The circle of men shifts uncomfortably.
Svarikov clears his throat, his eyes darting between me and the other pakhans.
"And if we go to war," he asks carefully. "What guarantees do we have that your weapons will continue flowing to all of us when it's over?"
I almost laugh at the absurdity of his question.
"Ask yourself this, Ivan Abramovich," I say, keeping my voice even. "When this war is over, who do you think I will reward? The ones who cowered in the face of the fight, or the ones with the balls to do what is right?"
Potyomkin's permanent scowl deepens, but there's a glint of approval in his eyes. Balakirev and Voronin exchange glances, their calculations visible on their faces.
Korsakov is the first to nod. "My men are ready. The Triads have been stealing our territory for years."
"As are mine," Svarikov adds quickly, not wanting to be outdone.
One by one, they fall in line. Not from loyalty to me. Not from any sense of honor or righteous anger over what's been done to my family.
But because they fear looking weak in front of the others.
Men like these understand only one thing: power.
And right now, the power is mine.
"Good," I say, surveying their faces. "Speak to the undecided pakhans and sway them. We go to war in the morning."
Potyomkin steps closer. "And where will you be tonight, Ruslan Vitalyevich?"
I turn to look towards Aurora. To Stella's face buried in my wife's skirts. To Sofia's shoulders still shaking as tears fall from her eyes. To Mikayla staring at the ground in shock and disbelief. To my mother who seems to have aged so quickly in the past few days.
"To comfort my nieces," I tell him, a bitter taste filling my mouth. "Because in case the rest of you haven't noticed, they're orphans now."
I don't wait for their reaction. I've wasted enough time with these vultures while my family grieves.
* * *
I push through bitterness rising in my throat as I leave the pakhans behind. Their voices fade with each step I take toward my family and away from the pack of wolves in expensive suits watching for weakness.
As I approach, Aurora looks up. Her face is drawn with grief, but when our eyes meet, something softens.
Even as she comforts my nieces, she extends a hand to me.
Both an invitation and a lifeline.
"Is everything alright?" she asks quietly as I reach them.
The girls turn to look at me. Stella's face is swollen from crying and Sofia's eyes are rimmed with red. Mikayla's expression is the hardest to bear. She looks too much like her mother in this moment.
"Politics," I mutter, low enough that only Aurora can hear. "Even now."
Aurora's eyes slide past me to where the pakhans are still huddled in conference. "I saw."
I take Stella's small hand in mine and she squeezes my fingers with surprising strength. "They wanted me to declare myself pakhan of pakhans. Here. Now."
Aurora's eyes widen slightly. "That's..."
"Disgusting, I know," I finish for her. "Instead, I'm having them pass a vote to declare war on the Triads. It'll keep them busy while I take care of what matters." I glance at the girls, and speak just a little bit louder. "And that's all of you.
I kneel down, bringing myself to Stella and Sofia's level. Their small faces crumple at the gesture, and suddenly they're rushing into my arms with such force I nearly topple backward.
"Uncle Ruslan," Sofia wails, burying her face against my shoulder. "Why did Mama have to go too?"
Stella's voice breaks through her sobs. "Is she with Papa and Mikhail now? Like the angels?"
Their questions pierce me. Simple words carrying the weight of grief too heavy for such small shoulders.
I hold them tighter, feeling their tears soak through my suit jacket. What can I possibly say that would make sense of this? That their mother died at the hands of a psychopath working with their grand-uncle? That the bratva life their parents chose has claimed yet another victim?
"Yes, dorogaya ," I murmur into Stella's hair. "Your mama is with your papa and brother now."
"But why couldn't she stay with us? Didn't she want to?"
My throat tightens. "She wanted to stay with you more than anything in the world."
"Then why did she leave?" Stella hiccups, pulling back to search my face for answers I don't have. "It's not fair!"
I stroke her tear-streaked cheek. "Sometimes people have to leave even when they don't want to."
Over their heads, I see Mikayla standing apart, spine rigid, eyes fighting to stay dry when every muscle in her body tells me that she wants nothing more than to break down and cry.
"Mikayla," I call softly. "You don't have to be strong right now. Not for me. Not for anyone."
She shakes her head slightly, her lips pressed together in a thin line. But I see the tremor in her chin, the barely contained storm in her eyes.
"It's okay to hurt," I tell her.
To my surprise, I feel moisture gathering in my own eyes. These girls have lost everything. Their father, their brother, and now their mother.
Aurora kneels beside me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Sofia immediately reaches for her, collapsing into her embrace with a fresh wave of sobs.
Aurora wraps her arms around the little girl, rocking her gently, whispering soft words only the two of them can hear.
Together, we stay like this for another few moments, before my mother taps me gently on my shoulder.
"It's time to go," she says.
"I don't want to go." Sofia shakes her head. "What if mama wakes up and we're not here?"
Her innocent question shatters me, but it's Aurora who speaks before I can.
"Sofia, we have to go now," she says gently. "But your mama will always be right here." She presses her hand gently to Sofia's heart. "That's where she'll always be."
Sofia's eyes well with fresh tears. "Do you promise?"
"I do, sweetie."
Slowly, she nods, and wipes away the tears at her eyes. Then, she reaches for Stella, who takes it without another word, before her other hand reaches for mine.
Hand in hand, we make our way toward the waiting cars, leaving Tamara's fresh grave behind. The girls will return here again someday. To place flowers. To speak to a headstone that will never answer. To mourn a mother, a father, and a brother that they lost too soon.
"I'll take them in my car." Mother offers.
I nod, grateful for her presence. She understands what these girls need better than most.
As they start toward the waiting vehicles, Aurora lingers, her fingers intertwining with mine.
"You're a good man, Ruslan," she says softly, her free hand resting on her swollen belly. "Better than any of them."
The simple statement hits me harder than I expect. I fight to keep my expression neutral, but Aurora sees through it.
She always does.
She rises on her tiptoes and places a gentle kiss on my lips. Nothing passionate, nothing demanding.
A reminder that I'm not alone.