Page 122 of Inked Athena

The gesture is so tender, soNova, that something inside me cracks. I turn and pull her close, burying my face in her hair. She smells like lavender and safety and home.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my chest. “About your father. About earlier. About all of it.”

I tighten my grip. Probably too hard, but she doesn’t complain. Just keeps rubbing my back. Keeps holding on.

Maybe dead men can’t give closure. But living women—the right ones—can give something better.

They can give grace.

It’s a while before anyone speaks. Nova is the one to break the silence.

“What happens now?”

I stroke her hair. “There will be a funeral in Chicago. Three days from now.”

She stiffens. “Chicago? But that’s?—”

“Neutral ground. Sacred ground, by Bratva law.” My jaw clenches. “No blood can be spilled at a patriarch’s funeral. Even Ilya will honor that.”

Nova pulls back, searching my face with those gold-flecked eyes that see too much. “And after the funeral?”

“What comes after doesn’t matter yet,” I whisper. “All that matters is paying proper respects. Making the right moves. Showing strength.”

“It sounds like another game.” Her voice carries an edge of frustration. “More chess pieces for you to position.”

“Because itisa game.” Myles steps into the room, phone pressed to his ear. He covers the mic. “And if we fuck up the opening moves, we lose before we start.”

Nova’s shoulders slump. I can see the fight drain from her posture, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

“You should rest,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Doctor’s orders.”

She nods, but her fingers clutch my shirt. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you won’t let this funeral turn into your grave.”

I meet her gaze, seeing all the fear she’s trying to hide. “I promise.”

But when I glance over her shoulder, Myles’s expression reflects what we both know—some promises are harder to keep than others.

He clears his throat. “A toast before you go. To the dead old bastard.”

Myles crosses to the bar cart, his footsteps echoing in the war room’s suffocating silence. The crystal decanter he selects—Russian Imperial, because Father would accept nothing less—catches the light from my screens. A hundred broken beams of blue and red glow dance across Nova’s face.

He pours three shots with practiced precision. Water for my pregnant queen, vodka for us.

The familiar scent hits my nostrils—hints of wheat and pepper that take me straight back to Father’s study. To lessons learned between sips about power, about weakness, about the price of trust. To mastiffs barking and snarling in dark, cold forests.

“To Leonid.” Myles raises his glass. “The worst man I’ve ever met. Who did one good thing in life, despite all his best efforts to undo it. Cheers, you miserable fuck.”

The vodka burns sweet and clean down my throat. Nova sips her water, one hand still locked in mine beneath the desk.

Myles pours again, faster this time, and passes my glass back to me. “And to you, Samuil. The one good thing.”

I throw back the second shot. The alcohol works quickly to numb the ache in my chest. When I stand, my legs feel steadier.

Nova wraps her arms around my waist, face pressed to my chest. Her tears soak through my shirt—silent drops of grief for a man who never deserved them.

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