The incense burns my throat.
I sit between Nico and Dmitri in the front pew of St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Cathedral, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing against my back. The church overflows with mourners dressed in black, their whispers creating a low hum that competes with the priest's chanting.
Karolina stands at the podium, her voice steady despite the tears tracking down her cheeks. She speaks in Russian first, then English, painting a picture of a father who taught her to ride horses and read Tolstoy before bed.
"He was not a gentle man," she says, her fingers gripping the wooden edges. "But he loved fiercely. Completely. Without reservation."
I keep my gaze forward, my hands folded in my lap.
We need to present a united front, he'd said this morning, his voice flat and hollow.My family. Your family. Together.
I'd wanted to tease him about making such a statement on his father's funeral day. The words had formed on my tongue,something light about him being dramatic, about the timing being morbid.
But then I'd looked at his face.
The shadows under his eyes. The rigid set of his jaw. The way his hands wouldn't stop moving, adjusting his cufflinks, smoothing his tie, reaching for something that wasn't there.
So I'd just nodded and come.
Nico shifts beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. He's been silent since we arrived, his dark eyes scanning the crowd with the precision of a surveillance camera. Lorenzo and Pietro sit on Nico's other side.
Ten of our men combined with Russian soldiers all over in and out of the church.
Karolina's voice cracks on a word I didn't hear. Something about mothers and children and the spaces between heartbeats.
Dmitri's hand finds mine.
His grip is too tight. I don't pull away. I thread my fingers through his and hold on.
I've faced this twice before.
This third time isn't about my blood family.
But somehow, sitting here with Dmitri's hand crushing mine, watching his sister struggle through words that will never be enough—it feels like it's about my future family.
Karolina finishes speaking and steps down from the podium. Natalia immediately rises to embrace her, both sisters clinging to each other in the aisle. Vladimir stands next, his movements stiff as he takes his place to speak.
I study the crowd while he talks.
The front rows hold Baganov family, mine and close associates. Behind them, the church fills with faces I recognize from intelligence briefings and surveillance photos. Heads of smaller organizations. Representatives from allied families. Menand women who've come to pay respects and, more importantly, to assess.
They're watching Dmitri.
Every single one of them is measuring, wondering if the new pakhan will be as formidable as his father. Wondering if there's weakness to exploit. Opportunity to seize.
I recognize the look. I've seen it directed at Pietro a hundred times since he took over for Riccardo.
Dmitri's thumb traces circles on my knuckle. Small, repetitive. I don't think he realizes he's doing it.
Last night, Dmitri called me at two in the morning.
His voice had been rough, scraped raw from hours of silence. He'd told me about Karolina's plan—a charity foundation for cancer patients and their families. A building dedicated to research, support, community. Something permanent. Something that would outlast all of them.
In memory of Alexei Baganov, he'd said.She wants to announce it at the reception after the funeral.
I'd been half-asleep, curled in my bed with my laptop still open beside me.That's beautiful, I'd murmured.
We'll announce our engagement there too.
