Chapter 29
Kirill
Funerals shouldn’t happen in summer.
It feels wrong to sit in a church, staring at a coffin holding someone you love while the sun shines brightly outside.
Give me rain, pouring down as if it will never stop.
Give me violent winds and chaotic sheets of water slamming against the church’s stained-glass windows.
Give me a damn hurricane threatening to tear the very roof from this holy place because that better reflects the pain and suffering clawing through all of us.
Don’t give me sunshine.
Don’t give me birds chirping as if this is just another beautiful day.
Because it’s not.
Because today…we bury a beloved sister into the earth.
Raw emotion clogs my throat as the Orthodox priest chants prayers in Old Church Slavonic—words we Bratva men have long since memorized, even if some of us don’t fully understand their meaning. Yes. We’ve attended too many funerals in our lives, not to know the words by heart now.
But some funerals stand apart from the rest.
And this one… most of all. This one… will haunt us forever.
For today we lay our Pakhan’s wife to rest.
My gaze drifts to the front pew where Misha sits alone, hollowed out, carved into a shell of the man he once was.
There are no tears in his eyes.
No expression on his face.
No life in his gaze.
My brother is already dead.
He died the same day his precious Elena did.
No matter how hard my brothers and I have tried to reach him these last few days, to pull him back from the edge, our efforts have been in vain.
After her death, he locked himself inside Elena’s room, her body still lying upon their marital bed as if she were only sleeping.
According to Orthodox tradition, the soul lingers near the body for three days.
That belief is why Misha refused to leave Elena’s side, clinging to whatever time death had not yet stolen from him.
He did not eat.
Did not sleep.
Did not speak.
The only person he allowed inside was the Orthodox priest, who came daily to recite the traditional prayers for the departed. Incense filled the room. Candles burned beside her body. Psalms were whispered into the shadows.
And when the third day came, when the priest said Elena’s body must be prepared for burial, Misha carried out the final rites himself. He washed her. Dressed her. Crossed her hands upon her chest and placed a small Theotokos icon between her fingers.
Now, here we all sit beneath gilded saints, watching our brother blankly stare at Elena’s open coffin as tradition demands, wondering if his pain will ever loosen its grip enough for him to speak to us again.
But we are not the only ones who fear that Misha may already be lost to his grief.
The church is filled with my brother’s most trusted lieutenants, and I see it clearly stamped across their faces, their quiet fear that their Pakhan will lose his edge now that his queen has perished.
They waste time calculating what this loss might mean for their own power, for their own gains, while all I want…all I need…is for Misha to look at us.
Look at us.
And at Nadya.
Our beautiful Nadya.
My baby niece.
Elena gave her life to bring her into this world… and yet Misha hasn’t held her for more than a few minutes since she was born. His grief has swallowed him whole, leaving no room for anything else.
But he is not the only one who lost Elena.
Nadya lost her mother, too.
She will grow up without her warmth, without her melodic voice, without her gentle touch. And by the looks of it… she may grow up without her father too.
I don’t even realize that I’m crying until Stella reaches up and discreetly wipes the tears from my face, careful not to let Misha’s men see weakness in any of us Petrovs.
I turn to face her and the sorrow in her eyes nearly breaks me all over again. But I don’t look away. Because she is here. My woman is here. My soul is right here. Alive and breathing. And because Stella is at my side, I haven’t completely surrendered to my own grief.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, low enough that no one else can hear.
I take her hand in mine and press a kiss to the inside of her wrist, the small touch breathing life back into me.
“Yes,” I murmur, placing her hand over my chest as if to prove my heart is still beating.
She gives me a sad smile and rests her head against my shoulder, her gaze drifting toward the coffin at the front of the church.
When Stella shudders at the sight of Elena lying there, pale and serene in her white shroud like an angel already chosen by God, I draw her closer and wrap my arm around her shoulders.
I hate this fucking tradition.
I told Sasha as much when he organized the funeral. I told him we should seal the coffin immediately and be done with it.
But Sasha ended the argument with two sentences I could never refute.
“Let him say goodbye. Don’t take Elena from him just yet.”
But she was already gone.
Staring at her lifeless body won’t bring her back.
When the priest tells us we may now pay our final respects, not a single one of us moves. This is the part where each of Elena’s loved ones is expected to approach the coffin so we can kiss her temple or the small medallion resting on her chest.
Yet another horrid tradition.
But today, I finally understand its purpose.
Because it’s the only thing that stirs my brother into some form of action.
Misha slowly rises from his pew, and the scrape of wood against stone tears through the silence as he walks toward the coffin. He leans over his wife and whispers something only Elena was ever meant to hear. Words meant for the dead… or for a man already half-buried beside her.
Then he presses a soft, trembling kiss to her lips.
The Orthodox Church forbids kissing the lips of the departed. Yet today, no one stands up to object.
Not the congregation.
Not even the priest.
We sit frozen as my brother tries to hold himself together. His shaking hand grips the edge of the coffin lid, and with one slow, devastating motion, he pulls it closed.
And that action feels so final that it takes the very air out of my lungs.
Elena is gone. Forever.
When I see Misha’s shoulders begin to shake, I press a kiss to Stella’s temple and rise from my seat. Sasha and Kostya stand beside me without a word, and together we move to our brother’s side. We help carry his wife from the church on our shoulders, step by measured step.
Outside, the sun blazes overhead.
And I curse it.
Curse it for daring to shine on a day like this.
No.
The sun should not shine today.
Not today.
Not when we are about to lower the only light this family ever had into the ground.
After the dismal affair of Elena’s wake, we drive back to the compound in heavy silence, each of us more sullen than before. Kira can’t stop crying, no matter how hard Lucky tries to comfort her.
I can only imagine what’s happening in the other cars trailing behind us. Darius is probably clinging to Sasha with everything he has, terrified that his favorite Petrov might somehow vanish too. Kostya is likely still mute, unable to string two sentences together.
And Misha? Who the fuck knows. He’s alone in his car, unwilling to let anyone witness his breakdown.
When we reach the house, Misha is the first to get out and disappear inside.
“Don’t,” I hear Sasha say as he places a gentle hand over Kostya’s chest, stopping him from following our brother. “Just let him be, Kostya.”
Normally, Kostya would curse Sasha out for trying to tell him what he can or cannot do. But today, he lowers his head… and obeys.
“Come, Darius,” Lucky says gently, taking the boy’s hand. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Darius mutters, roughly wiping at the tears that refuse to stop falling.
Lucky lowers himself onto his haunches so he’s eye-level with him. “I know, kid. But your sister hasn’t eaten anything all day. I was hoping you could help me with that.”
Darius glances up at Kira, her face tear-stricken and hollow, and nods. He’ll do anything for his sister. Even if that means forcing himself to eat something just so she will. With one hand laced with Darius’s and the other arm wrapped around Kira, Lucky guides them toward the kitchen.
“I’m going to check on Nadya,” Sasha says, his expression just as empty as the rest of us.
“Let me do it,” I interrupt. “You and Kostya haven’t eaten either. Me and Stella will check on the baby.”
“Are you sure?” Sasha asks hesitantly.
“He’s sure,” Kostya answers for me. “Come on, asshole. Let’s get some food. It’s been a hell of a day.” He drags Sasha toward the kitchen before he can argue.
I turn to my woman to ask if she’d mind coming with me, but she answers before I even speak, looping her arm through mine. “Let’s go.”
I let out a relieved breath and lead her upstairs, toward the nursery my brothers and I helped Elena decorate over the summer. I ease the door open and find Nadya’s nanny in the rocking chair beside the crib, quietly reading as she rocks.
“How is she?” I ask in Russian. The nanny rises immediately to her feet.
“Perfect. She’s perfect,” she says with a soft smile.
I glance at Nadya, fast asleep, peaceful and unaware of the world that’s already broken around her.
“Yes,” I whisper. “She really is.”
I ask the nanny to give us a few minutes alone with my niece, and she quietly slips out. I stand over the crib, my heart in pieces, wondering what kind of life waits for my niece now.
This is so fucking unfair.
Nadya was supposed to have everything. A Bratva princess like her should have everything.
And now… what kind of life will she have without a mother…and, by the looks of it, without a father either?
“Fuck,” I curse, wiping fresh tears from my eyes.
Stella steps in close, sliding under my arm just to hold me. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “Nadya will be okay,” she repeats, as if perfectly in tune with all my worrisome thoughts.
“Will she?” I ask quietly, not nearly as convinced.