Page 120 of Vendetta Crown

God, I know that feeling. That last night of normal sleep before waking to a life irreversibly changed.

Ruslan nods, understanding etched in the lines of his face. "Is there anything I can bring you?"

Mikayla blinks, and I feel the shift in her immediately. Her body, which had been soft with grief, suddenly goes rigid. Her face transforms, grief hardening into something darker, more primal.

Rage.

"You can bring me his corpse," she says, each word cut from glass. "I want to see his body bloody and broken in front of me. I want him torn apart, limb by limb."

The venom in her voice makes my skin prickle. Our losses may be the same, but our reaction is not. Where I had reacted to Kristofer's evil with fear. Mikayla has chosen anger.

But that which binds both reactions together is the same.

An undeniable hatred.

The same hatred that's lived inside me for seven years. The same hatred that kept me from truly living until I met Ruslan.

I know exactly how it feels to carry that hatred.

And I know exactly what it costs.

31

RUSLAN

ONE WEEK LATER

The earth swallowsthe sealed casket.

Tamara’s body had decomposed so much by the time I found her that the only way I was able to recognize her was through Lev's ring still on her finger.

The funeral home advised against a viewing. And I was inclined to agree.

There are some things that no-one should see.

I stand at the graveside, watching my nieces shatter in front of me. Mikayla's face is carved from stone, tears streaming silently down her cheeks while she steadies herself on Sofia's shoulders. Sofia sobs openly, her small frame shaking.

And little Stella clings to Aurora like she might disappear if she loosens her hold for even a second.

My wife holds them all together when I cannot.

Aurora's belly is more pronounced now, our twins growing inside her as she mothers three grieving girls who need her more than ever. Her hand strokes Stella's hair, whispering soft words I can't hear from where I stand.

I search the cemetery for Semyon's face, knowing he won't be here. But I look for him anyway.

His absence speaks volumes. The coward was content with watching his own niece die, but lacks the spine to see her buried.

Rage burns in me, tempered only by Aurora's gentle presence across from me.

The other pakhans stand in respectful silence. Voronin, Svarikov, Balakirev, Korsakov.

Even Potyomkin is here from Las Vegas.

And there, standing in the back among the fringes of the crowd is Gregor Belov. No longer the impressive godfather of the bratvas. He stands amidst the remaining pakhans of theVori.

Among the undecided.

They're here to pay respects, but also to watch.

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