The room empties slowly after that, the men dispersing into the haze of liquor and music below. I stay where I am, staring through the tinted glass at the city’s veins of light. The cigar burns between my fingers, each draw grounding me in the moment, though my thoughts refuse to stay still.
Her voice again, flat and final.“Not anymore.”
Chapter Three - Vivienne
The sun hasn’t even broken the horizon when I’m already behind the wheel, headlights cutting through the empty streets.
The city is quieter at this hour, stripped of its usual noise and chaos, but the silence feels borrowed, temporary. It will roar to life soon enough. I keep driving, past the last of the brownstones, past the strip malls with their neon signs flickering out, past the point where the skyline shrinks in my mirrors.
The roads stretch long and winding the further I go. No Bratva shadows here, no eyes in the rearview. Just me, asphalt, and the weight pressing against my chest. My phone buzzes once from the passenger seat, but I don’t look. Whoever it is can wait. This drive is mine.
The cemetery is tucked at the edge of a town most people forget exists. The iron gate creaks when I push it open, the sound too loud in the stillness. Frost laces the grass even though the sun has started to climb, pale light brushing across rows of stones. My breath ghosts in the air as I walk, boots crunching softly over the ground.
I find him the way I always do: fifth row, third stone in. The name carved into granite is worn but still sharp enough to catch the light. My father’s name.
For a long moment I stand there, staring down at it, every muscle locked. The air feels thinner here, harder to pull into my lungs. Finally, I kneel, the cold seeping through the fabric of my coat and into my bones.
My hands shake when I pull the photo from my pocket, edges frayed from years of folding and unfolding. Him and me, on a pier by the water, his arm thrown around my shoulders, his smile crooked, mine wide and unguarded. A lifetime ago.
I set the photo against the stone and place the pressed rose beside it, petals fragile, almost translucent. White, because he always said white roses carried strength in their silence.
My fingers linger on the granite, tracing each letter of his name. They tremble, though I force them steady. Crying would be easier. Letting it break me would be easier. Except tears are a luxury I can’t afford.
“Hi, Dad,” I whisper. My voice sounds strange in the open air, too small, like it doesn’t belong here.
I wait, as though something will answer back. Wind shifts through the trees, carrying nothing.
“I’m close,” I say finally. My throat tightens around the words. “Closer than I’ve ever been. They see me now. They’re watching. Which means I’m where I need to be.”
The breeze picks up, tugging at my hair. I stare down at the name, the carved edges blurring for a moment before sharpening again.
“I tell myself it’s for you,” I continue, my voice low, breaking into fragments. “For what they did. For what they took. I tell myself that’s enough. That justice is worth every lie, every risk.”
I swallow hard. My chest aches with the silence pressing back against me.
“Sometimes…” The words stumble, hesitant, heavy. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s really for you. Or if it’s for me. If I’ve built my whole life around this because I don’t know how to live without the anger anymore.”
The confession slips out before I can stop it, drifting into the cold air where no one can take it back.
“I don’t know who I am without it,” I whisper. My hand tightens against the stone. “Without wanting them to suffer the way you did.”
A crow calls in the distance, harsh against the quiet. The sound shatters the moment, and I bow my head, pressing my forehead against the cold granite.
“I’m in their circle now. They believe me. They think I’m on their side. Every day I walk closer into their world, every day I let them pull me further under. I hate them, Dad. I hate him.”
The memory of Alexei’s gray eyes cuts through me, sharper than I want it to. The way he’d looked at me outside the courthouse, not with greed or suspicion, but with something else. Something I can’t shake. I grit my teeth, forcing the thought away.
“I’ll finish it,” I say, though my voice wavers. “I’ll burn it all down. For you. For what they did. That’s the only promise I can give you.”
The silence that follows feels like judgment. My father’s face flashes in my memory again, smiling in that photo, so alive. He wouldn’t recognize me now.
I push back from the grave slowly, standing on unsteady legs. My knees ache from the cold, but I brush the dirt off and force myself tall again.
I look down at the stone one last time, at the photo and the rose. “Goodbye, Dad.” My voice steadies at the end, even if it feels like a lie.
The walk back to the car is longer than before, each step heavier. When I slide behind the wheel, I don’t start the engine right away. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles whiten, staring straight ahead. The doubt lingers, thick and suffocating.
Maybe I’m not doing this for him anymore. Maybe itisall for me.
