That had woken me up.
Dmitri it’s way too soon.
Things are moving fast now, solnyshko. I'm taking the title. People need to see stability. Strength. They need to see that the Baganov family isn't fractured by grief.
I'd sat up in bed, pushing my hair from my face.Your father just died.
Yes.A pause.And in one week, we're hosting a gala at Nexus.
That's the part that sits wrong in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a stone.
I know this because I've lived it.
Three weeks after my father's death, we hosted a charity gala.
Every member from his family was laughing and talking. And I stood by the window, watching snow fall on the garden, wondering why no one else seemed to notice that my father was dead.
This is how it works, Dmitri had said.
He's right.
You host galas. You make announcements. You smile until your face aches and shake hands until your fingers go numb.
Because the moment you stop moving, the vultures circle.
I've watched it happen. Families that took too long to recover from loss. Organizations that showed too much humanity. They got swallowed whole by rivals who smelled blood in the water.
So we become robots.
We program ourselves to function, to perform, to project strength even when we're hollow inside. We celebrate birthdays and holidays and milestones because the alternative is a death sentence in its own right.
I think about the people outside our world. The ones who lose someone and simply... stop. Who can't face Christmas without their mother or their birthday without their brother. Who give themselves permission to fall apart, to take time, to heal at whatever pace their hearts demand.
I don't judge them for it.
I envy them.
Dmitri
Vladimir finishes speaking.
My brother steps down from the podium, his face carved from the same stone as our father's headstone will be.
I release Vittoria's hand.
My legs carry me forward without conscious thought. Years of training. Years of preparation. Every step measured, every breath controlled. The priest nods as I pass him, his robes rustling like whispered prayers.
The podium feels smaller than it looked from the pew.
I place my hands on the worn wood, feeling the grooves left by generations of mourners before me. The speech sits folded in my breast pocket. Three pages of carefully crafted words that my lawyer Mikhail spent two days helping me write. Professional. Respectful. Strategic.
Every sentence designed to accomplish something.
I look out at the sea of faces.
If God himself watches from somewhere above this cathedral, he must be holding his breath. The angels painted on the ceiling stare down with golden eyes, their expressions frozen in eternal judgment.
"Alexei Baganov," I begin, my voice filling the vaulted space, "was not a man who inspired comfort. He did not offer gentle words or easy paths. He demanded excellence because he believed we were capable of it. He pushed us to our limits because he knew those limits were lies we told ourselves."
