28. Katya
Katya
I float through the funeral, not fully present.
Somehow, I never thought my grandfather would die. Even when I saw him looking frail and ill in that hospital bed, I simply couldn't believe that he would die.
After all, he was head of the Russian Bratva, and he always seemed like he would never fall.
And yet, as I watch the prayers and candles, and look out at the men in dark suits who have come to pay their respects, I can't help but admit to myself that this is real.
He's dead.
I am alone.
This isn't my first funeral. Or even my second. One of my core memories is the smell of candle wax as my mother and I stood and greeted people as they paid their respects to my father. Her own funeral smelled the same. As did my grandmother's.
The difference is that for those funerals, I had family. There were people who stood beside me and comforted me. Now, I'm alone.
Well, maybe not fully alone. Artem is here.
My husband stands beside me through the entire service. I can feel the warmth of his body through his suit, and though he doesn't touch me or say anything, I find a bit of comfort in his presence.
Only a bit.
"Mrs. Orlov?" I turn to the priest.
He looks at me with expectation, and I simply blink, unsure of what I am supposed to do.
Luckily, Artem steps forward and takes control, representing me and the family.
And perhaps it is stupid, but the move makes me feel slightly comforted. We might not have a real marriage, but in this moment, when I need him, he's being a husband, and I can appreciate that.
Afterward, in the car, I ask Artem a question that has been bothering me.
It's been sitting in my mind since the arrangements were made, the quiet assumption that Viktor would be buried here, in this city, in American soil, when his whole life was in Moscow.
His house is there. His history is there. The men who loved him, in whatever way men like Viktor are loved, are there.
"Why isn't he going home?"
Artem glances at me. "The arrangements were made quickly. International transport?—"
"That's not why." I know the logistics of moving a body across borders. "Why is he staying here, Artem?"
A pause. Artem looks out the window and exhales. "I thought you'd want to visit him," he tells me. "Without a twelve-hour flight."
I look at him, tears welling up in my eyes, and then I look away.
"When I started making plans, you weren't…" He trails off slightly.
I stiffen, but he doesn't elaborate.
Something shifts in my chest. Small. Inconvenient.
I hate myself for being vulnerable, but this is the second thing Artem has done that makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, he might care for me. I was a mess in the first days after Viktor's death. Artem took care of me and the arrangements.
He laid me softly in bed, brought me food, handfed me, bathed me. He propped me up when it all became too much, and as much as I hate parts of him — the things he's done — I'll never forget how he cared for me.
Maybe, now that my grandfather is put to rest, and whatever issues Artem has with it, we can restart.
I look back out my own window in silence, trying to remember the monster that trapped me.
I can't quite manage it.
I hate myself for it.
Two days after Viktor died, Artem moved us into my grandfather's New York house. He said it was easier to make plans from there, and it would have better security.
I didn't argue.
And right now, I'm glad. The penthouse would not have fit the dozens of people who come to pay their respects. Most of the people are New York Bratva, but there are groups from Moscow, Miami, and even L.A.
I move through the groups, accept condolences, drink half a cup of coffee, and try not to crumble when someone mentions that the Popov family is gone.
Artem disappears early into the crowd of Bratva men who need him for things I'm not privy to, which is fine. I don't need him beside me to perform. I'm a professional at this point.
I'm standing at one of the large windows with my arms crossed, wondering how long we would stay here. There's a large gate and hedges for privacy, and the lack of view is making me feel claustrophobic.
I hear the sound of heels behind me, and my nose catches the scent of expensive floral perfume. I turn expecting to see someone familiar. Instead, my mouth drops open in shock.
"Act normal," Nadia orders.
I snap my mouth closed, not sure what else to do.
Nadia is dressed for a funeral, dark coat, dark hair pulled back, nothing that would make her stand out in this crowd. She's good at that, I'm realizing—at being present without being noticed. She looks like she belongs.
"Are you insane?" I hiss, glancing to the side. "This place is teeming with Bratva members."
"Your husband has doubled your guards."
"Yes." I step toward her. "Which is why you should not be here."
"He's not here." She shrugs as though this is the most natural thing possible. "Just act natural. Everyone is going to assume I'm paying my respects unless you act otherwise."
I glance over at my guard, stiffening as he gives me a slight nod of his head. Shit.
"If my husband finds you…"
"He'll kill me." She stands beside me at the window. "But I needed to talk to you, and you didn't come to the café."
My mouth drops again. Is she for real? "My grandfather just died. Sorry if I wasn't into espionage."
"Which is why I am here. I told you that I have information."
"Information important enough to risk your life?"
"Yes." She glances back at the guards. "Your guard is on his second glass of vodka. He's pretty confident you aren't going anywhere."
"He's right."
She sighs. "I need to talk to you, Katya. I need to tell you about Irina."
I stiffen. That name. Fuck. She's got me.
"I can't go far," I tell her, glancing at my guard. "Not today."
She nods. "I just need five minutes. This house is huge. There must be somewhere."
I close my eyes. This is stupid. If Nadia wants to put her life on the line, that's her business, but I'm not interested in doing the same. And yet I need to know about Irina.
"There's a gardener's shed at the edge of the property, and the cameras are blind in the left corner. That's the best I can do."
Nadia nods. She reaches up and squeezes my shoulder. From an onlooker, it appears that she is comforting me. In reality, she leans forward and whispers, "Wait six minutes, and then join me."
I do what Nadia suggests, wait six minutes, something oddly specific, before I meet her at the edge of the property.
She's already there when I arrive, turned slightly, making sure she is hidden in the blind spot I told her about. As I walk toward her, the tension in her shoulders relaxes slightly.
"Thank you for coming," she tells me. "I know this is a hard time."
"You said you had something to tell me." I cross my arms, not interested in her fake pity. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime. "Tell me."
She looks at me for a moment with that careful, measured quality I've noticed before.
"Irina," she says the name as though I should know who it is.
I stiffen. I hate that name. "Artem's mistress, what about her?" Nadia's expression lets me know immediately I'm wrong.
"You mean his sister?"
Sister. Shit. Irina isn't his mistress at all. The one I didn't know existed.
Why the hell would he be so touchy about a sibling?
"I knew her," Nadia continues. "I was embedded in Alexei Morozov's organization for fourteen months, beginning about four years ago. Irina was his wife."
I'm silent.
I think about what happened when Viktor spoke her name, the white of Artem's knuckle on the door frame, the way two syllables undid something in his face he usually keeps welded shut.
I think about a marriage I was coerced into and how my grandfather wouldn't have allowed Alexei to marry without his consent.
"What happened to her?" I suspect I know. Even without all the signs, I knew Alexei — just briefly. He wasn't the type to treat a wife kindly.
"She died."
"How?" Time is ticking, and I need her to get to the point.
"She jumped from Alexei's penthouse window."
I inhale sharply. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this.
"I don't know if you ever met Alexei?—"
"I did."
Her dark eyes meet mine, and it's clear we are on the same page. Alexei was a piece of shit, and I couldn't imagine being married to him. He groped me during our one meeting, and I'm sure that was tame for him.
Poor Irina.
"Artem came to town after Irina's death. And then left. Now he's back, and Alexei is dead, and you, the heiress to the Bratva, are married to him."
I inhale sharply because what the fuck is she implying.
"Spell out what you're getting at."
She takes a step forward, and all my muscles tense. "Artem is here for revenge, and I suspect you are key to it."
I swallow. That would make sense considering everything.
"Well." I pick a piece of invisible lint off my dress, trying to calm my shaking hands. "Then I suppose my marriage is going to be short-lived."
"I was hoping that we might be able to help one another." Her eyes are bright and wide. "Take him down."
I shake my head. "No."
I make a move to pass her, but she reaches out and catches my arm. "Artem Orlov is a dangerous man. He's not going to let you just walk away."
I wrench my arm back. "Don't contact me again. For your sake."
"He's going to end up?—"
I ignore her as I walk away.
My hands shake with that slight persistent tremor that's become familiar over the past weeks. I press them flat against my thighs and walk back toward the house.
My breath comes in short pants, and I try to do everything I can not to break apart as the magnitude of my circumstances bears down on me.
"Kat?" I turn quickly, the familiarity of the voice startling me.
Luc, who I haven't seen in weeks, stands at the edge of the reception. I'm surprised to see him, which is stupid. He's second to his brother, who was unable to attend, which means he would come to pay his family's respects.
"Hey." He says it quietly, and it's the right word, just that, no performance, no careful condolences, just the gentleness of someone who actually knows me.
The simplicity of it breaks something inside of me, and I collapse into his arms sobbing.
"I've got you," he says into my hair, his hand moving in slow circles on my back. "Whatever it is. I've got you."
I press my face into his shoulder and let myself have this moment. It doesn't last though. It can't. We are in public, and if Artem learns I've been in another man's arms…
I pull back and look at Luc, whose face is open and sweet, so different from Artem.
"Are you okay?"
I glance around. People are looking at us, and I can sense the attention. My time is coming to an end, and yet I feel a niggling in my stomach.
"Luc, I need your help," I whisper.
His eyes go wide, and he reaches for me.
I shake my head, giving him a small smile, before turning away. "I'm sorry your brother wasn't able to make it." My voice is loud, and Luc looks confused. "The respect of the Neros is so important."
He nods. "Of course."
Three of the people nearby drift away when they realize nothing particularly interesting is going to happen between myself and the Nero second.
"What the fuck is going on, Kat?"
"I need you to just listen. Don't react. Just listen."
"Okay."
"Artem's sister," I say quietly. "Her name was Irina. She was married to Alexei Morozov." I watch his face, and his eyes go wide. "I think Viktor arranged the marriage. She died. And I think—" I stop. The thought is too large still, too unfinished. "I think that's why he married me."
Luc is quiet for a long moment.
"Katya," he says finally. "If he did that?—"
"I don't know if it's true. The source is complicated. She could be using me."
"What do you need me to do?"
"I need you to look into it for me. Look into Artem's background. If he's after revenge, I need to know."
"Why?" Luc asks. "Everyone involved is dead."
"And yet, we're still married. And he's made zero mention of ending it."
Luc closes his eyes.
We stand there together in the middle of my grandfather's funeral reception, surrounded by men in dark suits, and I feel the shape of it settling into me, not the truth of it yet, not fully, because I don't know what the truth is and I won't until I can think clearly, and I cannot think clearly right now.
But the shape of it. The architecture of a plan that started years before I met Artem Orlov at a cocktail party I didn't want to attend.
I was never the point.
I was always the key. His way to get revenge. And his way to power.
The idea of being used by him — it frightens me more than I care to admit. Because now I know. This wasn't just Bratva business. It was personal.
"What are you going to do?" Luc asks.
"I don't know yet." I swallow. "But knowledge is power, and I need it, now more than ever. With Viktor dead…" I'm shaking. With Viktor dead, I'm more vulnerable than ever. "Please, Luc. I need your help."
He nods, and I feel a sense of relief because I'm no longer completely in the dark.