6. The Burial
The Burial
Fyodor
Iwoke to quiet voices. Not a conversation, but the hushed, efficient rhythm of people who knew their roles without being told.
The penthouse was far from quiet. Downstairs, phones chimed, doors swung open and shut in a practiced rhythm, and footsteps crossed polished marble before fading away. Something was moving.
I pulled on a shirt and stepped into the hallway.
The shift in atmosphere was obvious before I even reached the staircase: every member of the household staff had dressed in black.
Olga, the housekeepers, the butler—even the security detail moving between the foyer and the front entrance wore dark suits instead of their usual uniforms. No one looked flustered, and no one spoke louder than necessary.
They moved with a quiet efficiency, as though this morning had been rehearsed long before the sun rose.
I descended into a sitting room that had been transformed into a command center. Lev stood by the fireplace, a tablet tucked beneath his arm while two men from Zhenya’s detail waited nearby for instructions.
Zhenya himself stood at the window overlooking the motor court, one phone pressed to his ear while another vibrated relentlessly on the coffee table.
“…No,” he said, sounding entirely unbothered. “The service begins at nine precisely.” A beat. “No delays.” Another pause. “The press stays outside the gates.”
He ended the call without waiting for a reply, and before the device hit the glass table, his hand was already on the second one.
He listened, offered four sharp sentences, and cut that line too.
For a man who rarely appeared rushed, he looked impossibly occupied—far more than he ever did during weekdays.
Across the room, his eyes met mine. Without breaking stride on his next call, he reached for a long garment bag draped over the back of the sofa and extended it toward me.
I took it, and only then did he lower his phone. “Your suit.”
I glanced down at the black fabric. “…Mine?”
His expression remained unreadable. “Unless Lev suddenly shrank.” A brief pause. “Try not to wrinkle it.”
The phone was back against his ear before I’d taken two steps toward the stairs. I left him to his calls.
* * *
The shower ran hotter than usual, steam coating the bathroom until the mirror vanished completely.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, the garment bag lay where I’d left it. Inside rested a flawlessly tailored black suit—Romanov money, Romanov craftsmanship. Everything fit with unsettling precision: the jacket, the trousers, the shirt.
Then I reached for the tie, and my fingers stopped.
After a beat, I set it neatly onto the bed and crossed to Nikolai’s wardrobe, opening the top drawer. Rows of ties filled the space—nothing expensive, nothing loud. My hand settled on a simple black silk piece. Plain. Understated. Very much his.
I fastened it slowly, looking at my reflection in the glass.
“He would’ve liked this one,” I said softly, making no effort to take the words back.
By the time I returned downstairs, Olga had spread breakfast across the dining table: fresh bread, eggs, fruit, tea, and coffee. Enough food for two men with no appetite whatsoever.
Zhenya entered a moment later, fastening his shirt cuff, his tie already set and his jacket draped over one arm. He looked at the spread, then at me.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Neither of us moved, and Olga looked between the two of us before letting out a soft sigh. “I’ll keep it warm.”
She knew she wouldn’t have to. By the time we returned, neither of us would remember breakfast had existed.
* * *
The front doors stood wide open, letting the crisp winter air drift inside, and beyond the threshold waited seven black sedans in tight formation.
Every window was heavy with tint, every engine purred in standby, and drivers stood at attention while motorcycle escorts waited at the head of the convoy.
I paused. It wasn’t excessive; it was simply Romanov. A funeral organized like a military strike.
Footsteps echoed behind me. Zhenya adjusted his hair as he walked, barely looking up from the document Lev handed him. He skimmed the page, passed it back, and met my gaze.
“Ready?”
I nodded.
He dismissed Lev with a gesture and headed for the final sedan in the line.
Opening the rear door himself, he stepped back so I could slide inside before joining me.
The door shut with a heavy thud, cutting off the chill. Outside, one of the officers spoke into his radio: “Convoy ready.”
The lead vehicle rolled forward, followed by the second, then the third. One by one, the procession pulled away from the penthouse in absolute silence as the city opened up before us.
Somewhere beyond these snow-dusted streets, Nikolai was about to bury the only person who had ever made him feel safe.
* * *
The convoy reached St. Joseph Orthodox Cathedral, overlooking Red Square, just as the heavy iron bells began their loud toll.
Black luxury cars stretched across nearly the entire length of the cathedral grounds—Rolls-Royces, Maybachs, Bentleys, and armored Mercedes.
It was the kind of fleet usually reserved for political summits or state funerals, though none of the people stepping out of them were here because they had loved Babushka; most had likely never even spoken to her.
They were here because the Romanov name had summoned them, and power always brought witnesses.
I stepped out beside him and took in the sheer scale of everything surrounding us: the security detail, the idling procession, the sprawling cathedral, and the stream of guests arriving under black umbrellas while cameras hovered respectfully beyond the outer gates.
I hadn’t expected any of this. Not for her, and certainly not for Nikolai.
Yet Zhenya had orchestrated every detail, from the cars to the security to the arrangements of white flowers, all because one old woman had loved a boy the rest of the world had chosen to ignore.
For a man who claimed not to understand love, he had spent the entire week speaking it fluently.
The wooden doors of the cathedral swung open, and the murmur of conversation outside died down almost instantly.
The clergy emerged first, cloaked in black and gold vestments, while the thick scent of incense curled into the cold morning air.
Behind them came Babushka. Her casket rested high on the shoulders of the pallbearers, moving in slow steps toward the grand entrance.
I glanced around at the crowd. Families gathered closely under the gray sky—parents with their children, grandchildren leaning against their elders, hands linked, heads bowed in shared grief. Then I looked back at the procession.
No sons. No daughters. No siblings or blood relatives walking beside her. No family to see her off.
Only me.
Something tightened painfully inside my chest, and without overthinking it, I stepped forward.
The presiding priest caught my eye and gave a small, solemn nod, as though this were precisely where I was supposed to be, so I fell into step beside the wooden box.
One final walk. The last thing I could still do for her.
Soft footsteps sounded to my left. When I turned slightly, I found Zhenya.
He hadn’t uttered a single word; he had simply closed the distance until we were pacing together, flanking her on either side.
Neither of us was family—not officially, anyway—but somehow, in that quiet walk up the stone steps, the distinction no longer seemed to matter.
As we crossed the cathedral threshold, the choir began to sing.
Ancient Church Slavonic surged through the sanctuary, echoing high beneath painted domes that had watched generations of Muscovites bring their dead.
The air was warm, smelling faintly of sweet beeswax and frankincense, as the casket was lowered onto the bier before the iconostasis at the center of the church.
Only once she was settled did we step back.
The Romanov family had already taken their place in the front pew on the left—Dmitry, Katerina, Irina, the murderer, and others—an entire dynasty draped in black.
Zhenya cast a single glance toward them, then looked back at me.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he guided me to the front pew on the right.
Separate. Not hidden away in the back, and not forced among them, but set right beside them. It was exactly where Nikolai would have wanted to sit, and exactly where Zhenya had decided we belonged.
For the first time since we stepped inside the cathedral, my eyes settled fully on Babushka.
And for one terrifying second, I wasn’t sure whether the sudden, suffocating ache rising in my chest belonged to me—or to the boy quietly waking somewhere beneath my skin.
* * *
The final prayer lingered in the icy air long after the choir’s last note had faded. One by one, the mourners crossed themselves before the open grave as the priest scattered a handful of earth onto the lid.
Then came the lowering of the ropes.
The polished wood sank below the frozen edge of the earth until only the mountain of flowers remained above. I stood rooted to the spot. When the first shovel of soil finally struck the coffin below, the sound echoed through the quiet cemetery.
With a final blessing, the priest stepped back, and the service dissolved. People began drifting away in small clusters, speaking in hushed, polished tones that had remarkably little to do with grief and far more to do with old money fulfilling an obligation.
I didn’t move, watching the dark dirt slowly disappear beneath fresh wreaths. Zhenya stood close enough that our sleeves brushed whenever someone passed. He hadn’t left my side once—not in the sanctuary, not during the slow walk across the grounds, and not now.
The first man to step forward was older, carrying broad shoulders and dark threaded through silver hair. He had the unmistakable presence of someone accustomed to making decisions without hesitation: Dmitry Romanov.
He stopped before me, and for the first few seconds, he just stared.
“I wish,” he said at last, his voice lacking the sharp arrogance I’d braced for, “that our first meeting had happened under better circumstances. I didn’t know your grandmother, but I hear she loved you greatly.”
I met his gaze. “She did.”
A tired smile reached his lips as he held out a hand. After a brief pause, I took it. His grip was firm. There was nothing performative about it.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Nikolai.”
The name landed strangely against my ears, but I kept my composure.
“I appreciate you coming.”
“It would’ve been disrespectful not to.” He released my hand, his eyes shifting momentarily toward Zhenya before returning to mine. “I hope our next conversation happens over dinner rather than at a graveside.”
I nearly smiled. “So do I.”
He nodded once in respect, turned, and lost himself in the crowd.
Before the quiet could settle, another figure stepped into his place—Irina. Elegant and immaculately draped in black, she studied me for a long beat before wrapping me in an unprompted embrace that caught me entirely off guard.
“Poor child,” she murmured against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother. I believe she’s in a better place.”
She drew back before I could form a response. “Take care of yourself.” Then she was gone.
Katerina arrived next. Unlike the others, she offered no immediate condolences; she simply looked at me, her eyes tracking my face as if trying to decipher something she couldn’t quite name.
“I’m sorry,” she offered quietly.
“Thank you.”
Her gaze drifted to her son. “May I borrow him for a moment?”
Zhenya looked at me first, waiting for my signal. I gave a slight nod, and Katerina touched his sleeve. “Walk with me.”
He caught my eye once more. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched them step away, merging into the crowd gathered near the floral arrangements. For the first time all morning, I stood alone.
Footsteps approached from behind—slow, and entirely confident. I didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.
Mikhail Romanov stepped up beside me, tall and pristine, his dark hair slicked back and his pale blue eyes mirroring Zhenya’s, though Zhenya’s were far harder to read.
He kept his hands behind his back in the relaxed posture of a man strolling through a garden rather than standing over a fresh grave.
With the same solemn expression everyone else had worn, he looked down at the freshly turned earth and crossed himself, playing the part of a grieving relative for anyone watching from a distance.
Then he leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “So… did he tell you?”
I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead. “Tell me what?”
A low chuckle escaped him. “Your Romanov. He figured it out. He knows what was in the drip.”
My fingers curled into tight fists inside my coat.
“You’d be amazed what a few colorless milliliters can accomplish,” Mikhail murmured, letting the words hang between us.
“I’ve always preferred clean work. The old woman never suffered… well, not physically. But waiting for you? I imagine that hurt.”
He straightened his tie with meticulous care. “Take care of yourself, Nikolai.”
As he turned and began to walk away, the entire cemetery seemed to shrink down to a single point: his retreating back.
Instinct took over, my hand slipping beneath my coat until my palm closed around the cold, familiar handle of a cheap folding knife. I’d bought it on my third day away from the penthouse after realizing canned food was useless without a tool, and it had lingered in my pocket ever since.
My thumb caught the stud, and the blade opened with a quiet, sharp click.
Mikhail didn’t look back. I closed the gap—one swift step, then two, then three—erasing the distance between us. If he still had breath left for apologies, he could offer them directly to Babushka.
I drove the steel forward.
I was barely an inch from his back when a hand caught the blade—not my wrist, but the raw steel itself. Metal bit deep into flesh with a sickening slice.
Everything froze, including Mikhail, who turned slightly in place.
Blood pooled quickly across pale fingers before dripping dark against the snow. I forced my eyes upward to find Zhenya holding the bare blade, his expression completely devoid of pain.
Slowly, his free hand reached up, his fingers brushing the hair back from my forehead with extraordinary gentleness.
He offered an incredibly warm smile.
“All this anger…” His thumb traced a soft line across my hairline. “…in such a small body.”
My chest heaved with ragged breaths, but he didn’t look down at the knife, nor at the blood running down his hand. He looked only at me.
“I told you,” he whispered, his voice as calm as the winter air around us. “You don’t need to raise a finger.”
He stroked my hair once more.
“Let me be the one stained.”