Time to ask why she built old buildings back into something useful. Time to tell her I had noticed her. Time to learn what lived beneath her careful dresses and watchful eyes.
That time had ended before it began.
Now she was Mikhail’s daughter.
Anton’s sister.
The living point where the Orlov alliance could either hold or rupture.
And I was Lev’s son no longer.
I was Pakhan.
Ksenia met my gaze. Grief stripped every polite layer from her expression.
There was no softness in it.
There was trust, but only enough for the next decision.
For now, that would have to be enough.
“Together,” she said quietly.
Her father’s last instruction.
My father’s too.
I nodded.
Across their blood, before we had the chance to become anything else, Ksenia Orlova and I became allies.
Chapter 4
Ksenia
By seven-thirty on the morning of my father’s funeral, I had corrected the flowers twice, changed the order of three cars, and made a grown man move a box of memorial candles six inches to the left.
The candles had not been blocking anything. That was not the point.
The point was that they could be moved. The lilies could be rearranged. The black cars could be placed in the correct order outside St. Seraphim Russian Orthodox Church. The list of mourners could be checked against the list from Anton’s office. The side door on Richards Street could be watched. The umbrellas could be counted.
My father could not be brought back.
So I handled the things that moved.
Rain had fallen during the night. It had stopped before dawn, leaving Red Hook dark and wet beneath a low November sky. Water shone on the sidewalks. The brick church looked almost black in the morning light.
Inside, incense already thickened the air.
The florist had used too many white lilies near the coffin. My father had passionately disliked lilies.
“Move half of those to the entrance,” I said.
The woman beside the arrangement hesitated. “Mrs. Petrov sent them.”
“I know. Keep her card with the flowers. Move the arrangement.”
She obeyed.