The fool doesn’t even flinch as Katerina stalks towards him. Her movements are lithe and feminine, while also menacing and terrifying. She’s formidable in this moment, and it’s when she pulls two knives from the holsters on her thighs that he finally blanches.
“Stand up,” she commands, and to my utmost surprise, he obeys. She’s the same height as him, allowing her to look straight into his eyes as she approaches.
“His name was Nikolai Markov, and he was my best friend,” she seethes. “???? ? ???.”
Then, she plunges one knife into the left side of his neck and the other into the right side of his belly. Then, so slowly, she drags the knives across their respective body parts, until his head lolls back, barely connected to his body, and his innards spill from the gash as his corpse hits the floor.
“For Nikolai.”
Her words hang heavy in the air as they sink into our bones. I feel each one etched into my soul, even the ones I don’t understand, this moment stained in my mind forever. The perfect portrayal of a grieving woman in all her fury, avenging a loved one.
Eventually, she returns to Nik’s side and kneels next to him. She mutters what must be prayers in Russian after making the sign of the cross. I turn my back as do the others, giving her the privacy she deserves. I don’t know much about the Russian Orthodox Church, but I do know it’s very traditional.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she stands and walks to my hallway searching. When she enters my bathroom, I expect her to close the door, but she doesn’t. She exits with a damp washcloth and returns to Nik’s side.
She disrobes him with the help of her husband down to his underwear, then begins cleaning him. Realizing the one cloth won’t be enough, I go into my bathroom, and wet several of my towels. Then I bring them all to her.
I step away, wanting to give her privacy, but then she turns to me and asks, “Did you love him too?”
I nod. “Yes. He was a great friend,” I admit hoarsely through the lump in my throat.
She nods, then pulls me down by my hand and hands me a towel. Taking the cue, I start washing him as well. All around us, a Syndicate army of no less than twenty men carries out the bodies of Vincent’s men and clean my house, but I don’t pay it any mind. My complete focus is on Nik as we clean him.
Once his body is clean, she starts on his hair. Returning to my bathroom, I fill a pitcher with water, collect soaps, and grab my brush. I make my way back, and together, we work on his hair.
Katerina’s tears never dry, freely flowing down her cheeks. Even in her pain, she’s beautiful. I don’t say anything, letting us work in silence.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been tending to his body when the front door opens again. Harsher-looking men enter, and the way the Syndicate men warily stare at them, I know they’re not our men. But no one draws guns, so I exhale.
Russian is spoken between them, and I vaguely recall Nik mentioning a Russian crime family. This must be the one he grew up in. These men, and a few women, surround his body and begin praying. One steps forward, clearly their leader, and wraps his arms around Katerina. I expect Katerina to attack him, but instead, she leans into him.
“Petya,” she cries, melting into his hug. I notice their shared features, the same blue eyes and blonde hair, and realize he must be her brother.
I back away as this group pays their respects. It’s then that I see a taller, dark brown man towards the back of the room, torment etched into his features. He’s holding a broom, but he’s not sweeping. He’s standing still, caught in a trance. And in my gut, I know.
Slowly, I approach him, but he doesn’t register my presence. I reach out and brush my hand over his, causing him to jolt back to the present.
“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely, but I stop him.
“Are you Anthony?” I ask in a low voice, not letting anyone else overhear.
His eyes fill with tears as he nods in confirmation. This poor man can’t grieve his boyfriend publicly because his sexuality isn’t public knowledge. So, here he is, in front of the corpse of his love, unable to approach, unable to reach out to him.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I tell him in a strangled voice, turning my hand so I’m gripping his. Tears well in my eyes once more, and I curse myself for being so emotional when he has to hide his feelings. “He really loved you.”
Anthony looks at me with clear eyes for the first time, then makes a choked sound. He heaves in a sharp breath, close to breaking. I turn us so he’s facing the corner away from prying eyes.
“Can I hug you?” To anyone overhearing, they’d believe it’s for my comfort, but it’s for his. He understands and exhales in relief.
Pulling me in deeply, he embraces me with all his might. I don’t comment on how tight his grip is because he needs this. I can feel his tears soaking the top of my head as he leans down to rest his head on mine.
“Thank you,” he whispers in a ragged voice.
I just clutch him tighter, cursing the world we live in. The world that takes good men like Nik from us. A world that can be cruel to those who are different forcing Anthony to hide his grief over the man he loves.
When we finally part, Anthony composes himself. He wipes his cheeks and blinks his eyes until you’d never know he was crying. He pats my head then turns and leaves. I’m not offended by the abrupt parting.
When he finds me, Bash leads me out of the sorrowful home now haunted by my friend. With a hand resting on my back, he directs us through the fence, disables the lockdown and leads us to our bedroom.
