"Twelve by the gate. Another eight trying to blend in with the civilians." He drums his fingers on the wheel. "Want us to thin the crowd a bit? Dmitry's boys are getting bored."
The memory of Clara's fury before she collapsed makes my jaw clench. Maksim's little improvisation with the sedative... Part of me wants to put a bullet in him for that stunt. But another part—the part that's seen too many coffins that weren't empty—whispers maybe he had the right idea. Chaining her up starts to sound reasonable when the alternative is watching Stephan put her in the ground for real.
"She's going to kill us both when she wakes up," Maksim says, like he's commenting on the weather. "Probably start with your balls. I’m guessing she’ll save me for dessert."
I glance at him, debating whether to dignify that with a response. The memory of Clara’s fury—those blue eyes cutting like a storm before she collapsed—flares to life. My jaw tightens, and I look back out the window. The rain streaks the glass, softening the shapes of the mourners gathered ahead.
“She’s not risking her life here,” I say finally, the words low and even. “That’s what matters.”
Maksim snorts. “Touching. Almost romantic. Should I get you flowers to hand her when she wakes up? Maybe a card that says, ‘Sorry I didn’t stop the sedative.’”
The urge to break his nose flashes hot, but I push it down. The now is what matters. The rain falls heavier, turning the cemetery into a tableau of umbrellas and wet grass. A flash of lightning forks across the horizon, pulling my attention back to the task at hand.
"No civilian casualties," I tell Maksim, tucking the phone away. "But his security? Consider it a graduation present for the new recruits."
Maksim's grin turns feral. "Been a while since The Raven had a proper bloodbath. The boys will be thrilled."
Through the tinted windows, I watch the cemetery sprawl out like a chessboard. Ancient oaks loom over marble headstones, their shadows stretching long across the wet grass. Historic mausoleums dot the grounds, their weathered stone offering perfect cover for anyone planning to start a war at a funeral. The mourners cluster near a fresh grave, black umbrellas blooming like deadly flowers. At the center, a mahogany casket draped in white lilies sits ready for its performance.
"Stephan really went all out," Maksim says, nodding toward the string quartet huddled under a nearby tent. "The flowers alone must have cost—"
"Lilies," I cut him off. “I’m sure that’s not her favorite.” I study the flowers draped across the casket, wondering what she actually prefers. Roses would be too obvious for someone like Clara. Maybe something with thorns, or those blue flowers that can kill if you're not careful. The kind of beauty that demands respect.
The door handle digs into my palm as I step out into the rain. Water beads on my suit jacket—Italian wool, chosen for the way it conceals my shoulder holster. Clara would probably have anopinion about it. She seems to have opinions about everything else.
The crowd parts as I approach, whispers following in my wake. Some clutch their purses closer. Others reach for concealed weapons. A woman in Chanel sobs into a handkerchief—probably one of Stephan's plants. The performance would be amusing if it didn't make my trigger finger itch.
Maksim gives a signal to Dmitry, who's leading the the rest of the men; they fan out, slipping into the crowd, behind trees. Weapons visible.
I fix my eyes on Stephan. He's still playing his part by the casket, handkerchief dabbing at dry eyes. The sight of him standing near Clara’s portrait makes me see red.
My shoes sink slightly in the wet grass with each step. The distance between us shrinks—fifteen feet, ten, five.
Close enough now to see the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his tie.
Close enough to notice how his security detail tenses, hands hovering near concealed weapons.
Maksim is at my side, black umbrella tilted to shield us both, though the cold drizzle pricks my face anyway.
But theublyudokdoesn’t see me yet; he’s too busy holding court, shaking hands and murmuring platitudes like he’s a goddamn politician.
I recognize every face he greets—casino owners who launder our competition's money, dock workers who conveniently forget to check certain containers, cops who know when to look the other way. All here to see which way the power will shift. A funeral's just another networking event when you're swimming with sharks.
Maksim steps closer. “Half of these people are his,” he mutters. His eyes scan the crowd, cataloging faces. “The other half are here for the free wine.”
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth, brief and humorless. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and cut flowers. The priest drones on about eternal rest.
But the whispers around the crowd swell, a ripple of unease spreading through the air. I step forward, letting my men fan out subtly behind me. Maksim’s hand signals to Dmitry’s crew near the mausoleums, their presence blending into the shadows but unmistakable to anyone paying attention.
Stephan’s gaze finally lands on me. His eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of recognition sparking there as the pieces click into place. His handkerchief freezes mid-motion, no longer dabbing at eyes that were never wet. The silence stretches a second too long. He spots Maksim next, and then Dmitry’s men stationed among the tombstones. The truth hits him like a hammer.
The game has shifted.
With a steady hand, he folds the handkerchief neatly and slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
As his hand lingers, his fingers graze the cool steel of the gun hidden beneath the fabric. A fleeting touch, more instinct than necessity, but enough to ground him. He smooths the lapel of his jacket, exhaling quietly before clearing his throat,
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” He clear his throat, “Leonid Kuznetsov.”
