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And Milana keeps swinging between crying and laughing at wildly inappropriate moments.

Five daughters.

That was Papa's great tragedy. Not that he'd ever admit it.

He loved us. I'm certain of that. But Yaroslav Maximov had spent his entire adult life building an empire he intended to leave to a son.

Then Mama gave him me.

Then Zhenya.

Evaria.

Galana.

And finally, Milana.

I remember standing outside Mama's hospital room when Milana was born. I was old enough by then to understand the significance of the silence that followed when Papa asked what she'd had.

Another girl.

He'd stared through the window at the tiny pink bundle in Mama's arms for what felt like forever.

Then he'd walked inside, picked up his fifth daughter, and promptly declared she was perfect.

That was Papa.

Contradictions wrapped in long silences and an expensive suit.

He could have a man killed before breakfast and spend lunchtime shouting at a teacher because she'd made Galana cry. He could disappear for three days without explanation and come home carrying five identical boxes because God forbid one daughter got something the others didn't.

He taught us to shoot, to fight, how to use a knife. He sent us to the best schools. He bought us apartments, cars and jewelry.

And he interfered in absolutely every decision any of us attempted to make.

My eyes burn. I blink hard and stare at the coffin.

I'm still angry with him. That's the worst part. He's dead, and I'm still angry.

I thought death would wipe everything clean somehow. That the second his heart stopped, all the arguments and resentment would disappear beneath the crushing weight of grief.

Instead, they're sitting right alongside it.

I loved him. I wanted to strangle him at least twice a week. Apparently, both things can be true.

The priest finishes speaking. One by one, men begin moving forward.

Some I know. Some I recognize. Others are simply faces I've seen passing through Papa's house or sitting at the enormous dining table while we were instructed to stay upstairs.

Papa's world has always existed around us without ever quite including us. That's another thing that pissed me off.

He raised five daughters who could probably run half his businesses better than the men standing around this grave, then spent years insisting we shouldn't concern ourselves with his work.

A movement across the grave catches my attention.

Garick Lazovski.

I know him mostly by reputation. Everyone does.