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Vasili, once a physically imposing nightmare of a man, was now frail and papery-looking as he sat propped up in his king-sized bed. His hands trembled at his sides, and even smiling seemed to take a toll on his energy. He was a shell of the man he used to be, but Mikhail knelt down with the same respect he always showed to his father. Vasili reached out and Mikhail took his hand, feeling the bony protrusions of his fingers. Vasili’s face was wan and pale, lined from years and years of leadership and battles.
“Zdraztvuytye, Father,” Mikhail said.
He drew in a tight, pained breath and summoned his strength to mutter, “Lovely weather for a funeral, is it not?”
“The world is in mourning,” Mikhail answered.
Vasili chuckled softly. “Not all the world. There are those who will celebrate my passing and oppose your birthright as Pakhan. You must be prepared to defend that which belongs to you, as we have always done.”
“I’m ready. I’ve been ready,” Mikhail assured him. “Everything is in place. The arrangements have all been made.”
“Da, my son. You are my strongest warrior, my truest ally. There is no safer place for the brotherhood than in your hands,” Vasili agreed, pausing to cough. “What a comfort to know my legacy is safe with you.”
Mikhail could feel his father’s grip loosening on his hand. He gave it a squeeze.
“The Sokolov name will live on. It has been an honor learning from you,” he said.
“And it has been my greatest pleasure to teach you,” Vasili murmured roughly. His eyelids fluttered, his chest swelling as he fought to breathe. “Never forget who you are, where you come from, what you stand for. The organization is your first priority.”
“I will not let you down,” Mikhail promised.
“I know,” the ailing leader whispered. “I know you won’t.”
The faintest smile crossed his face as his eyes began to close. The final image the great Vasili Sokolov saw in this life was the face of his son. And when the powerful old man lay still in the mass of bedsheets, Mikhail felt a shift of grief inside his chest. The ache of sadness dulled to background pain. The loss only kicked him hard for the first few seconds of realizing his father was no more, and then, Mikhail released Vasili’s hand and got to his feet. The room was quiet. There was nothing left here for him now.
As he walked out of the room, he was greeted by a congregation of mourners. His father’s advisors and security team. Avtoritets and Brodyaga. Made men, even civilians, had gathered at the Sokolov Estate for the passing of a legend and his torch. The crowds dressed in all black seemed to straighten up at the sight of Mikhail, their new Pakhan. They gazed at him with newfound awe and respect, bowing out of his way with deferential words. Mikhail nodded at them and descended the staircase to the great hall. A pre-approved team of advisors, payroll doctors, officials, and grunts headed up to the fallen Pakhan’s bedroom to prepare him for the funeral, which was to take place immediately. It was their way.
Within a few hours, the massive crowds were gathering outside in the back garden of the grounds. There, contained within a small labyrinth of rose bushes, was the perfect rectangular grave dug out for the deceased leader. The headstone at its crest was large and heavy, made from a thick slab of granite. It was a glossy, smooth obsidian black, with a small bust of Vasili carved artfully into its face underneath his name. Mikhail stood at the front of the flock as people filtered across the grounds for the funeral rites. There were tons of people present when Mikhail had arrived earlier, but more and more arrived in droves for the ceremony. Everyone, from the lowest ranked to the most prestigious positions in the organization, was dressed in somber black clothes. Mikhail saw multiple men he had worked with on missions before, men who were covered in dirt or blood the last time he saw them, but now cleaned up and well-manicured for the event of a lifetime. The weather was determined to ruin everyone’s dry cleaning, however, as the sky cracked into a stormy afternoon. Black umbrellas opened across the Sokolov Estate while the priest, a close advisor to Vasili, began his eulogy.
“Thank you all for coming. We are gathered together on this fine afternoon to honor the life and legacy of Vasili Sokolov: father, soldier, and leader,” he announced. “It is impossible to list the many achievements of our fallen friend. A life so filled with triumphs they can never be truly summarized. If you are present today, you already know what Vasili Sokolov’s death means to us all.”
In fluent Russian, the priest spoke of the old Pakhan’s influence, his years of controlling the region and expanding outward still. He described Vasili’s rise to power and skirted around the cruelties he had to enact to hold on to that power. The crowds listened raptly, but Mikhail could feel their eyes boring into him. They were all captivated, holding their breath as they awaited the new Pakhan’s assumption. The rain poured throughout the whole service, not letting up even as the pallbearers lowered Vasili’s gold-plated casket into the earth. The sandy soil turned muddy with thousands of footsteps across the grounds. The priest spoke a few final words over the grave as it was filled in, and then the funeral was over.
The spotlight that had been focused on Mikhail all day intensified to a floodlight. Any lesser man would have felt overwhelmed, caught in the crosshairs. It was an enormous undertaking, with a million tiny responsibilities tied to the position. Everyone was tuned into Mikhail, eager to see the new Sokolov Pakhan in action. The crowds filtered back inside, filling the nooks and crannies of the estate. The funeral proceedings shifted into a chatty, boozy wake. People wove through the throngs, drinking champagne and socializing. The live band hired for the event changed from grim dirges to more upbeat tunes. This was their way.
The mood was lifting across the organization as the focus shifted from death to vibrant life. Caterers on the Bratva payroll brought out fancy versions of traditional Russian hors d’oeuvres. Vasili’s trusted advisors and security team encircled Mikhail at all times. He was the man of the hour; nay, the century. It was of utmost importance that he remain safe. Mikhail was no fool; he knew that the passing of one Pakhan and the crowning of another was a vulnerable window of time for the brotherhood. Anyone who wanted to undermine his leadership, or worse, try to harm or kill him, would want to strike during this time. The Baranovs in particular weighed on his mind.
And it wasn’t only him. As the night stretched on, the crowds grew more intoxicated. There was a conspiratorial feeling in the air. Everyone was there for the same reason. Everyone supported Mikhail and wanted to see him succeed. But people came to Mikhail again and again to offer their congratulations and consolation at the same time, and their words often hinted at the worry on their minds.
“Your father was the greatest man to ever run the streets of Las Vegas,” slurred one of the older men, a friend of the late Pakhan. His breath smelled of vodka, and his eyes were pink around the rims. He leaned close to Mikhail and added, “Except for you, of course. I am honored to serve the new Pakhan.”
“Your support is noted,” Mikhail replied nobly.
The man went on, “It’s a pity that Vasili won’t get the chance to see his son do great things in this city. I have no doubt that you will handle the… less dignified aspects of the position with the same strength. Your father was an honorable man, but there are some situations that don’t call for honor.”
Mikhail said nothing, only stared at the man until he further explained, “I do not question the late Pakhan’s intentions, but I do wonder about the legitimacy of his later choices.”
“Spit it out,” Mikhail urged him quietly.
The advisor smirked and moved closer, lowering his tone. “For example, your betrothed. After what happened to your mother, I must say I never expected a union with the Baranovs.”
Mikhail bristled at the mention of his mother and Annika in the same breath. He silenced the man with a brusque, “I don’t expect everyone to comprehend my father’s logic.”
The older man closed his mouth and nodded, realizing he was toeing the line. He bowed away, but Mikhail encountered more of the same as the night wore on. Another man, this one so young and full of fight, approached him close to midnight.
He warned Mikhail, “Respectfully, I ask you to watch yourself, sir. You might turn a blind eye one day and find a Baranov blade in your back.”
“Rest assured, I have eyes in the back of my head,” Mikhail told him.
