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Lyon stood next to Kira in the funeral line, watching as she greeted each person by name, thanked them for coming, accepted their condolences with her trademark grace.
He could hardly bear it. Viktor’s loss hurt. He hadn’t been a perfect man, but Lyon had liked him, had respected him. He was sorry to see him die at Musa’s hands, and even sorrier it had been because of Lyon’s war with Musa.
But that wasn’t the hardest part. The hardest part was watching Kira grieve in the five days since Viktor’s death, watching her eyes empty of the fire he’d come to love, watching her cheeks hollow as she refused to eat.
It was like watching the sun die before his very eyes.
He wanted to help her, to ease her pain, but he knew there was nothing he could do in the wake of such loss. He’d felt it with his own father, knew grief had to work its way out of the heart and mind in its own time.
He looked at her as she greeted Ivan, leaning in to kiss the old man’s cheek as he murmured his condolences. She’d hardly looked at Lyon in the days since Viktor’s death, and Lyon couldn’t help thinking she blamed him.
He wouldn’t blame her. He’d been so fixated on Musa, so fixated on killing him, it had never occurred to him to station someone at the Baranov house. Lyon was Musa’s intended target — and Kira.
That was the part he’d overlooked: the hatred that had burned in Musa’s eyes when he’d looked at Kira, his desire to punish her for the crime of being Viktor’s daughter, of throwing in her lot with Lyon.
He’d seen it, but he hadn’t imagined Musa would strike out in such a shocking way. Lyon had only wanted to keep Kira safe, had kept her close for that reason.
He hadn’t even thought about her father.
Shame bled through his chest. This was his fault. He’d failed her.
“That’s it,” Lyon said to Kira as the line emptied. “Let’s go. You need to eat something.”
“I don’t want to eat.” Her voice was toneless. “I want to go home.”
“The wake…"
“I don’t care about the wake,” she said.
He nodded and took her arm.
He led her outside to the waiting limousine and Rurik jumped out to open the back door. Lyon had called in the bratva’s best surgeon, and Rurik had undergone a two-hour surgery in the warehouse on the riverfront. The conditions hadn’t been ideal — something Lyon would remedy when he was pakhan by setting up a proper medical unit out of sight of law enforcement — but Rurik had lived.
Kira slid into the limousine. Lyon moved to follow, then caught sight of Ivan headed his way.
He shut the door and met the man halfway. Ivan wasn’t getting any younger.
Ivan put a hand on his shoulder. “It was a beautiful service.”
“Yes,” Lyon said.
“I’ll see you at the wake?”
“Kira isn’t well,” Lyon said. “I’m taking her home.”
Ivan nodded, his expression grave. “Rest is what she needs.” He hesitated. “Musa has gone underground.”
“So I’ve heard.” Lyon had every resource he had on the man. He was going to find him and kill him, and this time it would be a slow and painful death, one Musa had earned for the grief Kira was suffering now.
“This buys you some time,” Ivan said. “I’ve gotten the other Spies to agree to a month’s reprieve. You’re still exiled, but they won’t convene a panel to decide your fate during that time.”
“And what of Musa?” Lyon asked, fighting to keep the hostility from his voice. “Will he be exiled for murdering a former pakhan?”
“Most certainly,” Ivan said. “It all puts us in quite a quandary.”
“I’m ready to assume leadership,” Lyon said. “I’m confident when the Spies look at all that’s happened, they’ll see that I’m most equipped for the position.”
