Page 4 of Cruel Existence

“I’m going to my room to rest,” I repeated the orders my father had given me.

He took a step on the massive winding staircase. “Are you going to watch me sleep? You’re not really my type, Ciro. It could get awkward.”

“I’ll be outside your door.” He pursed his lips together.

“And what about your sidekick?”

“He’ll be here as well.”

I huffed and continued up the staircase. “Seems like a lot of security for one person.”

“You’re not just anyone.” We stopped outside my bedroom door. My father’s personal attendant passed us in the hallway. Ciro’s hand moved to the latch. “You’re Lucien Martin’s daughter.”

I was reminded often of who my father was. I groaned, slipped into my room, and locked Ciro out.

Two

LUKA

Organ music. Fucking organ music filled the air, accompanied by the church choir in the loft behind our heads. I adjusted one cufflink and then the other. I wasn’t known to stall, but what kind of person was eager to give a eulogy? Especially when that man was the devil.

Uncle Ivan.

I cleared my throat. My aunt clutched my hand with an ice-like grip before I stood from the pew. There was something desperate and pleading in her eyes. I leaned down to peck her cheek, through the short black veil that covered her face, only because I knew everyone was watching.

“Don’t worry. I won’t destroy my own name,” I whispered.

With that, she seemed to relax into her seat, no longer needing the assurance of my father or sister, planted on either side ofher. My mother had faked an illness in order not to attend the services today. Just as well.

With the notes tucked in my breast pocket, I took my position in the pulpit—a space I never wanted to command. The priest nodded at me from his seat on the dais. Death had tapped me for this moment. There was little I could do to say no. Not as Ivan’s only nephew. The man didn’t have children. There were no other heirs. I looked out at the congregation gathered to pay their social respects to this man. Their expressions vapid. Eyes tearless.

While I was supposed to represent the mourners, all I could do was wonder who in this church was responsible for my uncle’s murder. Which one of the families fanned out in front of me had planned his death. Who was next in my family?

I cleared my throat. “Thank you. My Uncle Ivan would have been warmed to see so many family and friends gathered here today to say goodbye.” My voice carried, assisted by the microphone. I scanned each pew, each bowed head, each set of hands fumbling with a set of orthodox prayer beads. They were all suspects.

All trained in deceit. I wouldn’t get any answers today. Not while I gave a eulogy.

The truth was, in this congregation, no one was truly ever innocent. If they ever confessed the sins on their tongues the deluge of truth would spill over the confessional and drain into the sewers and catacombs beneath the cathedral. There was enough darkness in this one building to drown the entire city of New Orleans.

By the time I finished the scripted speech, Father Philip was ready to usher me off his territory. I nodded and rejoined my family, stopping at the open coffin in the center ofthe aisle. It was more than ironic Ivan was in traditional white, laid out for everyone to see. The undertaker was able to conceal the five bullet holes in his chest.

“Beautiful,” my aunt whispered. She tapped my hand. “Just lovely. You made Ivan proud. Thank you, Luka.”

“You’re welcome, Aunt Duscha.”

I caught my grandmother’s glare a few seats down the pew with the rest of the Novikovs. Her gaze was cold. Unfeeling. For a woman who had lost a son, there was no trace of grief beneath her veil.

There were moments when I was reminded how deep our Russian roots ran. This was one of those inescapable snatches of time. My uncle’s dead body was sprinkled with holy water by the priest and the family was led toward the coffin where we circled one last time around my father’s little brother before exiting the church.

I heard my grandmother whisper as she leaned toward Ivan. “Proklyatyy,” she rasped. Damned. Cursed. She had no sorrow for the son she believed had brought misfortune on the Novikov name. She didn’t seem to care who knew it.

After the service, my father and I escorted Duscha to the front steps of the cathedral. She pressed one of Ivan’s handkerchiefs to her eyes as the casket passed in front of us. It was hard to distinguish theater from what was authentic anymore. After today, I would take control of all the messaging. Today, she got her tears.

My grandmother had already disappeared, carted off in a Town Car, out of sight from the other families.

I turned when someone tapped my shoulder. “Luka, there’s something you should see.” It was Maksim, a man who hadworked for the family for at least a decade. My father considered him to be his newest Brigadier. That’s how loyal the men were who worked for us. Ten years for one of our brigadiers was the equivalent of a rookie on a police squadron. It took dedication, sacrifice, and proven blook on their hands to be seen as seasoned in my father’s eyes.

I gritted my teeth. “I’m in the receiving line for my uncle’s funeral. Show some respect.” This wasn’t the time for business.

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