Page 129 of Inked Athena

“My father believed that love was weakness.”

My voice rings out across the cathedral. It echoes. Doubles. Triples. Fades. Though some part of me thinks every word is somehow sticking to the beams arcing overhead. That what I say here today will remain here for the rest of eternity.

“My father believed that love was shameful.”

My gaze sweeps across the sea of black-clad mourners. Their faces blur together. I don’t bother noting who they are, what they’ve done, whether they are a threat, an ally, or a pawn to be manipulated. I used to do that out of sheer habit. I don’t anymore.

Because none of them matter. They might take what’s mine or add to it, but they will not change what I have. What I’ve done. Who I am.

I have Nova.

I have Myles.

I have my child.

What the fuck else could possibly matter?

“My father believed that love was a sin.” I work my jaw from side to side. “He taught me that lesson repeatedly. He made damn sure it stuck. Today, I stand before you to tell you he was wrong.”

Utter silence has the crowd by its throat.

“Leonid Litvinov built an empire through fear. He wielded power like a scythe, cutting open those closest to him first. But empires built on fear eventually crumble. True strength—true power—comes from having something worth protecting. He didn’t know that.”

My hands grip the podium’s edges. “I used to think I needed my father’s approval. His respect. His love. I don’t anymore. Because I’ve learned that real love doesn’t demand proof of worthiness. It simply is.”

The tension in the cathedral grows thicker with each word.

I turn to the casket. “So I thank you, Father, for your final lesson. In showing me everything a leader shouldn’t be, you helped me become the man I am. May you find peace knowing the Litvinov name will endure—not through fear, but through loyalty freely given. Not because of you, but in spite of you. Not with you, but without you—and we are all better for that. So let this be a sign: today, I put you behind me. I put you beneath me. And in whatever hell you end up in, whichever lowest circle of the fucking afterlife will take you… I can only hope that God shows you the mercy that you never showed anyone else.”

As my last word dies in the rafters, I step back from the podium. The crowd eyes me strangely—no surprise there.

What’s surprising is how little I care.

Let them whisper. Let them wonder.

The frightened Samuil desperate for his father’s approval died long ago.

So did the Samuil who gives a fuck about the intricacies of life in this city’s underbelly. Once upon a time, I would’ve been cataloging every whisper, every sideways glance, trying to assess the twisted web of alliances and brewing betrayals. Now, my eyes look for only one person.

But they find empty space where she ought to be.

Where the fuck is Nova?

My chest constricts as I scan the pews again and again. No sign of her golden-brown eyes or Myles’s tall frame.

I saw him escorting her toward the bathroom during a break in the service, but that was fifteen minutes ago or more.

They’ve been gone too long.

Way too long.

Viktor stands rigid by the cathedral’s stone wall, hands clasped behind his back. When our eyes meet, I give him the slightest nod. He peels away from his post and floats through the crowd like smoke on the wind.

Ilya’s missing, too. My brother hasn’t shown his face today, which is fucking bizarre. He didn’t come to grieve? To gloat? To threaten me some more, if nothing else?

The hair on the back of my neck rises. Something’s wrong. Everything inside me screams to tear through this place looking for Nova, but I force myself to stay put. To keep playing my role.

Mourners approach with hollow condolences. I accept their words with practiced grace while tracking Viktor’s progress through my peripheral vision. He reaches the back of the cathedral and disappears through a heavy wooden door.

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