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Andrei sighs. “You see what can happen now. We have to stay together if we’re going to survive. Once it’s over, you can have anything you want.”
I almost shout that I don’t want another fucking piece of jewelry. “I’m sorry about Eva,” I repeat myself like a broken record.
This time, he doesn’t answer me.
Chapter 6
Andrei
A century ago, the ancient church was built on a plot of rural farmland. Today, it is wedged between newer buildings in a rundown section of town. The green copper domes tower over the solid red brick walls of the building, and it appears oddly out of place surrounded by fast-food restaurants and liquor stores.
A wire fence circles the premises, shielding it from being crowded out any more than it already is. It remains almost empty on most days, except for major holidays and events, which bring the congregants back to check if it’s still standing.
My family rarely went to church on Sundays except for the holidays. But Vasily and Eva donated generously to the local Orthodox church in Twin Rivers. Because of this, they agreed to host her wake and funeral.
Inside, the musty air is dense, with the scent of incense burned throughout the years. Bright sunlight exposes specks of dust floating in the air, and the stained-glass windows spread a limited spectrum of primary colors onto the walls. An icon of Christ hangs above the pulpit; its bright colors are dimmed by years of smoke and dust. Candles flicker in tall holders, casting a dim glow on my mother’s coffin covered with lavender roses.
Dutifully, I sit in the first pew with Paige on my right and Emma next to her. The church holds three hundred congregants, but when I look around, it is half full. The mourners are scattered about the oak pews with their heads bowed in silent prayer. The silence is broken by occasional snippets of conversation as people greet one another.
My Bratva supports me, but the others are staying away.
The atmosphere is subdued with sadness. It is not a celebration of life.
Murmurs reach my ears that Bratva royalty have entered the church. Radomil Sorokin arrives first to pay his respects. It would be a grave insult if he hadn’t come, and he stands by Eva’s closed coffin for a moment. His head bows before walking over to the first pew. I stand to greet my loyal supporter, who has decided to stand by me through threatening times.
“My sympathy, Andrei,” he says. “I know it was difficult.” He grasps my hand firmly. “You did what was necessary and handled it like a true and loyal leader.”
I nod, my throat so tight I can’t speak. He releases my hand and motions to Anatoli Popov, walking toward the altar. Sorokin walks over to Popov, and they greet each other, gripping each other’s hands as they speak. My curiosity is insistent and hard to ignore, and I glance over my shoulder. The church is slowly filling up with allies I recognize.
Popov sits in the pew behind me to show his support and to be seen. He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “You are truth and strength, Andrei. And you have my loyalty.”
Slowly, I realize that Eva’s death isn’t seen as an accident but as a necessary evil. An act of betrayal that merits punishment. Even if the punished was my own mother. Eva has been labeled a traitor by the Bratvas for being Igor’s mistress and conspiring with him to have her husband—her pakhan—shot.
They respect the sacrifice they think I made, unaware that Eva made the greatest sacrifice of them all.
More Bratva royalty now begin to enter the church. They’re few in number and not from the Barinov Bratva, but one of the old aristocrats has appeared to pay their respects.
The sight of the woman approaching matters a great deal among those present.
Zhanna Nikolaeva starts down the aisle, leaning heavily on her grandson’s arm. Her veiled hat obscures her wrinkled face as her frail form moves slowly but with purpose. Bowing their heads, the mourners show her respect. For decades, rumors have clung to her name that her blood is truly royal.
Whether the rumors are true or not, her great-grandfather established the first Bratva in America. The widow Nikolaeva holds out her hand, and I bow over it.
“It was a hard choice, Andrei Vasilyevich,” she speaks discreetly, leaning in close. “But a man in your position must do impossible things. The Bratvas are proud of your courage.” The widow glances at Paige. “Is this your wife?” she asks, and I nod while Paige stands. The widow clasps her hands and speaks. “May you have a strong son to carry the Barinov name.”
The widow and her grandson walk away and occupy the first pew on the opposite side. Her presence alone is an honor that will be talked about.
Popov leans forward again. “This is a major honor, Andrei Vasilyevich. Anyone who doesn’t show today is not worth knowing.”
I recite the Bratva oath in my mind. “You care for no one but the Bratva, and you shall love none other than the Bratva.” But I didn’t do it for the Bratva. It was an entirely selfish act. I never once thought of the Bratva when I fired my gun at Igor. Anger motivated me, not duty. But I sit here and say nothing as the elite heap praise on me for a selfless act that has raised my status in their eyes.
I keep my mouth shut, and it only confirms what they think of Eva. I am made a hero for the most cowardly act I’ve ever committed. And I am unable to expose my grief and shame.
My mother is dead because of my rashness. My anger took me over, and now I will live with that.
The Bratva aristocrats continue whispering among themselves. None dare shame Eva with harsh words in my presence. They afford her that much respect, at least.
Paige discreetly glances over her shoulder. “Are all these people part of the Barinov Bratva?”
