Chapter 36
Roman
Itake two steps, plant myself between Zoya and the mess, and start cutting this into pieces I can control.
“Andrei.”
“Already on it,” he says and moves about like he’s done this a thousand times.
He probably has. He hauls Nik up as Yuri pulls the car around and shoves him in the boot.
The body will be disposed of, and he will be assumed missing in action after he was publicly demoted before he even got promoted.
Tyres hiss on wet grit, and the car slides off like it was never there.
I gesture Alexey closer. “You tidy your end. No one grandstands. If anyone asks where he is, he’s gone somewhere to lick his wounds.”
Alexey nods. “Understood.”
“And your phones stay dark. No photos. No whispers to cousins in Barking with big mouths.”
He turns to his men. “You heard him.”
Katya slips through the hedge with a calm that makes me want ten more of her. She flicks her eyes over Zoya, then me, then the dark smear under the yews. “Done?”
“Done.” I glance at Zoya. “The service is over. We move to the gravesite. You keep your head up. Eyes front. You accept the condolences, congratulations, and threats all with the same blank expression and not a word uttered. Understood?”
She nods once. “I can do that.”
“Good.” I take her hand and squeeze once, and lead her to the graveyard around the side of the church, where she will await her father’s coffin.
I guide her through the lychgate and take the front, parting men with my presence and a single, cold nod.
Rain freckles the marble stones and turns the earth to dark paste.
The priest has been briefed and paid off to finish this service and then keep his mouth shut.
He glances at me, then at Zoya, and decides his God thrives on discretion. Sensible man.
The coffin arrives with men who now answer to the new pakhan.
The pearls gleam like an heirloom verdict at Zoya’s throat. I place her where every old pirate with a title must face her first.
Baron, to my surprise, joins on her left, a black cut of winter, eyes giving nothing. He does not offer comfort. He offers consequences by existing. It’s enough.
Condolences begin, a quiet procession of men who have profited from the dead. I tip heads off with looks before they can overstay. If someone tries for sympathy and leverage in the same sentence, I slice the second half with a polite interruption and a time limit no one dares challenge.
The first test comes in sable and ancient cologne. Petrov of Bethnal Green, hawk nose, cold hands. He bows an inch too shallow to be respect and lets his gaze rest on Zoya like she’s an inheritance with a crack in the glaze.
“Gospozha Antonova,” he says. “Your father was a titan. He knew where strength lay.”
Zoya meets his eyes through the rain. She nods and says nothing as instructed. The silence will eat them alive, and that is where her power lies. I shift half a step, cutting Petrov’s sightline like I’m closing a door.
His mouth twitches with irritation. He bows properly this time, his spine curving deeper than before while his old bones protest the movement. Petrov moves on without another word. I watch him retreat like a good boy who has just been taught his place.
Next, two Georgians with wolf rings and thin smiles. They murmur platitudes and try to fish dates, routes, names from Zoya’s grief.
They don’t like silence. They like chaos. But Zoya doesn’t give an inch. They wander off, already calculating who to prod.
A young pakhan in a new suit tries charm. Zoya answers with an expression that says nothing and everything. Proud. Untouchable.
Baron doesn’t move. He is a fact standing on consecrated mud. His presence makes the fence-sitters pick a side without saying a word.
Alexey drifts into place like a tide coming in and stops two men from getting cute with proximity. He doesn’t touch them. He just breathes wrong. They remember their place and fold back into the congregation.
I keep time in my head. Five minutes, then four, then three.
When it is over, and Mikhail’s empty coffin is in the ground. I tip my chin to the priest. He mumbles a last prayer and flees to the vestry like mercy owes him a favour.
Baron leans in a fraction, enough for only me to hear. “You’ve set the city alight. Keep it contained.”
“It’s contained,” I say. “For now.”
Zoya stands like a verdict. No tremor. No tell. I feel the fine thread between us go taut and sure. She did not falter.
“Move,” I murmur.
We cut through the crush, collecting threats disguised as sympathy. An Odessa relic steps into our path, breath sour with old rage. “A girl on a throne,” he rasps. “Insult.”
I smile like a blade. “Go home, Viktor. Your winter came and went while you were busy telling stories.”
He opens his mouth. Alexey appears at his back and lingers like a bad smell. No pressure. Plenty of meaning. Viktor thinks better of another word and peels off, grumbling.
At the lychgate, the air shifts. Streets hum. Sirens somewhere far off. Rain needles my cuffs. Andrei murmurs, “Car one primed. Decoys split east and south.”
“West for us,” I reply. “Bridge if needed.”
Zoya’s hand finds my sleeve for the barest beat, a pulse pressed to cloth. Then she lets go and steps into the lane like a queen who has memorised every inch of her kingdom.
The ghost car noses out from behind a florist’s van, grey and forgettable.
I open the rear door and sweep the pavement in a slow cut—faces, lines, angles.
A man three doors down pauses with a cigarette, eyes too sharp for a mourner.
I log him, log the exit, log the nearest blind corner.
Then I tuck Zoya into the rear seat and slide in after her.
We move out.
Zoya keeps her gaze ahead, her veil pushed back now, her breath measured.
“You can unclench now,” I say with a smile.
She turns her head and blinks, then she lets out a loud laugh that borders on hysteria. “Are you sure?”
I smirk. “Positive.”
“Are we being followed?”
“Not yet,” Petr says from the driver’s seat. “I’m like a hawk.”
“What will Andrei do with the… Nik?” Zoya asks.
“Make sure he never gets found dead.”
She exhales slowly. She doesn’t need a picture drawn with crayons. She grew up in this life, and as much as her father sheltered her from the nastier side of things, she knows what happens to people who need to be disappeared forever.
Petr threads us into traffic. The city opens its jaws and pretends indifference.
“West?” he prompts.
“West,” I confirm. “Bridge if it sours.”
A black cab drifts, then steadies. A cyclist kisses the wing mirror with knuckles and profanity. Normal London chaos. Useful cover.
Zoya stares ahead. Her laugh still hums in the air like a wire gone taut and then cut. I rest my palm over her knee and feel the tremor she refuses to show the world. It eases under my hand. She breathes, measured again.
“Two cars back,” Petr says, mildly. “Silver BMW. Stayed through the last turn.”
“Keep pace. Don’t invite.”
We slide past the market where crates of wet tulips look like casualties. The BMW hovers, then edges closer. Amateur tail or a message. Either way, I won’t let it write the next line.
“They are about to regret their day,” I say, eyes on the side mirror.
At the next lights, the BMW nudges up a car length too far. I count three heartbeats, then say, “Petr. Show them why you aced tactical driving for the Met.”
He snorts and slams his foot on the accelerator.
Zoya grips my hand, her eyes wide as the undercover police vehicle comes out to play. “What?” she asks as she notices the flashing lights reflected on the sides of the passing cars, and the BMW brakes sharply and pulls back.
“Petr is a reverse agent,” I explain, not really needing to hide it from her. Who is she going to tell?
“What is that?” she asks.
“He is Bratva, born and bred, but infiltrated the Met.”
“As opposed to an undercover police officer infiltrating a criminal gang,” she breathes. “Impressive.”
“Not really. It’s common.”
She stares at me before she turns her head to the side. “I have a lot to learn.”
“You do, malyshka. But you will learn fast, or you will invite threats. Do you understand?”
She nods. “Teach me.”
I lace our fingers together. “I will. But a lot of it is experience.”
“Maybe, but that which you just told me is knowledge you can impart and I need.”
“Then here’s your first list,” I say, keeping my eyes on the mirrors. “Never sit with your back to a door. Count exits when you enter a room. Note the man who looks bored when everyone else is tense—he’s paid not to care. And if a car keeps your speed for three turns, it’s not an accident.”
“Like our friend in the BMW.”
“Exactly.” I nod to Petr. “Take the underpass and bleed him.”
Petr drops a gear. We dive under a bridge, skim a bus’s flank, and slide through a gap that doesn’t exist unless you trust metal and angles.
Zoya exhales. “What else?”
“Switch out coming up,” Petr murmurs.
I nod my acknowledgement. “Change one thing about your look every time you move between locations. Hat off, hair up, coat buttoned or open. Force re-ID. Next—never be first out of a lift. Let the door close on a hand if you must.”
She nods, absorbing, quick mind flicking ahead. “What about people?”
“Which ones?”
“Men who smile and hope I drop something they can scoop up.”
“Refuse small favours,” I say. “They come with big strings. If someone ‘forgets’ a debt you owe, pay it anyway. You set your currency, not them. And never accept a car you didn’t request.”
She turns that over.
“Thirty seconds to switch out,” Petr mutters and swerves off the road onto a suburban road.
“Get ready to move. We are changing cars.”
She nods and rips the veil off her head. I give her a half smile. She’s learning fast already.
A builder’s van sits with its hazards on. Back doors open a crack. No one spares a glance; London sees tradesmen and goes blind.
“Move,” I say.
I’m out first. I scan left, right, up. Quiet. Zoya slips past me, veil gone, hair twisted up with that lethal pin holding it in place. I pass her a plain wool beanie from the seat pocket and a pair of tinted specs in a cheap case.
“On,” I murmur.
She jams the hat down, slides the glasses on, and buttons the coat to her chin. She looks like a PA on an errand, not a queen fresh from a coup.
We climb into the van’s shadowed belly. Petr pulls our ghost car back into the lane and rolls on as if nothing changed. The van doors shut. A tap on the bulkhead. The new driver eases us out with the patience of a man who has never once rushed a job.
Zoya exhales, then straightens as we go over a pothole. She grips the side of the van. “Tell me what happens next.”
I meet her gaze with a slow smile. “Home.”