Page 1 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

1

VERA

The rain is a cold, steady drum against the black umbrella. It turns the grass to mud, and each step makes a soft, sucking sound.

Below, the polished wood of Dmitri’s coffin disappears into the earth.

The priest’s voice drones, talking about dust and sin, or whatever.

I watch the brass handles vanish, and my mind is quiet. Empty. There’s no grief here. Only the steady percussion of the rain against my umbrella.

Dad shifts beside me, his wool coat scratching against my sleeve. He clears his throat.

I keep my eyes fixed on the hole in the ground. It’s almost finished. Soon, this will be over. I can go back to the house, take off this dress, and breathe.

Movement catches my eye. I turn my head, my gaze cutting across the clustered heads of black umbrellas.

There’s a man I don’t recognize staring straight at me.

He stands apart, near the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. His face is in shadow, but even from here I can see how he holds himself utterly still.

“Who is that?” I murmur to Dad. I don’t look at him when I speak.

He follows my line of sight, his brow furrowing. “Who? I don’t... oh. I don’t know, Vera. One of Dmitri’s people, probably. From out of town.” He turns back to the grave, his attention already drifting.

Maybe Dad doesn’t see how unnervingly calm this man is. Or maybe he just doesn’t care; it’s hard to tell with him sometimes.

The man is still there, a fixed point in my periphery as the priest continues.

A cold knot forms in my stomach, tight and unfamiliar. Dmitri had people, yes. They were loud and brash, and they drank too much. None of them were quiet and still like the man by the gate.

The priest makes the sign of the cross. “Amen.”

It’s over. The mourners begin to move. They’ll be coming toward me now, offering false platitudes.

“I need some air,” I say to my father. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just... away.”

I turn and walk away from the grave, my heels sinking into the wet earth with each step. I head for the line of gnarled oak trees at the edge of the cemetery, and I’m glad Dad doesn’t try to follow.

The rain hammers down. The umbrella sways in the breeze and misty rainwater dampens the side of my head before I can fix it.

I don’t have to look back to know he’s following me. For a moment, I consider going back to Dad. Pretending to mourn is better than the unease settling deep in my gut.

I stop under the dripping branches of an oak, turning to face him. There’s a split second where I clock how close he is, then glance behind to see how quickly I could dart back to the group.

Dad’s watching us. There’s that, at least.

The man is closer now, his umbrella casting a wide circle of drier ground around him. He stops just outside my personal space.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

I’m in mourning. I’m supposed to be left alone. Who’s he to follow me?

A faint smile touches his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Neither should you, really.”