Page 62 of Heritage of Fire

“Thank you,” I say. Searching for Nik. I spot him on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on Lev with a stern glare.

“You got it.” Lev winks at me, but it doesn’t dip my stomach like Nik’s does.

Soon, I find myself trailing behind Igor, with Nik close behind. His hand on my lower back gently guides me through the crowd and toward the graveside service.

The air is crisp and refreshing, signaling the onset of summer. There’s a warmth in the air, but it’s not laden with sweltering heat yet.

Rows of chairs face a freshly dug grave, the deep mahogany casket catching the sun’s glimmer. An elderly woman sits in the front row, delicately dabbing her eyes with a tissue. We come to a halt beside Luka and Kate, and behind us, several other families begin to file in.

A few minutes later, I inhale a sharp gasp as my father and several Cosa Nostra men approach. My father acknowledges Luka with a nod, and his gaze connects with mine, and then Nik’s, before he positions himself opposite the Bratva. A faint smile graces his face.

The opening remarks are delivered, followed by a heartfelt prayer. Dmitry’s sister delivers a poignant eulogy, painting a beautiful picture of his life. Unmarried and without a partner, his thirty-five years seemed to be entirely dedicated to the Bratva.

The older woman I noticed earlier, presumably his mother, places a single white rose on the casket, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I glance at Nik; his gaze is fixed on the spot where the rose sits. He swallows repeatedly, and I wonder whether he’s suppressing tears. Luka remains composed while Kate clasps his hand, her eyes glassy as she gazes up at him with profound love and unwavering devotion.

A twinge of discomfort tightens my chest as I observe other Bratva men holding their wives or significant others, highlighting the noticeable distance between Nik and me.

Closing remarks start, expressing gratitude to all attendees and announcing a post-service gathering at Dmitry’s mother’s home. As the music fades and the crowd begins to disperse, my father approaches with two guards flanking him. He directs his attention to Luka.

“Our condolences for your loss. I’m sorry he had to die at their hands.”

I don’t understand who they’re discussing, and Luka doesn’t give it away with his response. He merely nods and introduces Kate, who’s standing by his side.

As they talk, I absentmindedly twirl the hideous family ring on my finger. Curious if Nik’s wearing his, I attempt to catch a glimpse of his hands, but they’re tucked into his pockets.

“Luna,” my father says. “Are you well?”

I blink, unprepared for such a question.

“Yes.” I offer a smile, but it feels like a lie.

“Good.”

And with that, he’s finished with me. He moves to speak more with Luka, but I don’t even care to listen anymore. I back away, my mouth suddenly dry.

Nik stays to talk with my father and several members of each respective side. Kate stays by Luka’s side, her arm firmly looped through his. I doubt Nik even realizes I’ve moved away.

Ugh, Luna. Stop.

But I can’t.

I see it. Both sides working together, discussing their next move, honoring the alliance—an alliance I paid the price for. I’ve been used up, like a coin for candy. They got the sweet deal they wanted, and I was their payment.

I shudder, annoyed with myself. I’m having a pity party in the middle of a man’s funeral.

It feels trivial, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

My sister is running late. It shouldn’t surprise me. The whole family has always been subject to operating on her time.

I take a sip of my lemonade, served neatly in a mason jar glass with a sprig of fresh mint, a slice of lemon hugging the rim. The restaurant we’re meeting at is a small eclectic sandwich shop I’ve never been to. It’s closer to my parent’s home than the warehouse.

Mirrors appear to be a passion here. They’re hangingall overthe walls, casting playful streams of sunlight throughout the restaurant.

A small bell dings when the door blows open, and my sister strides in. She’s in a tube top, cutoff shorts, and heels, the exact opposite of my t-shirt, jeans, and Vans.

“Sorry I’m late,” she huffs, throwing her sunglasses up on top of her head, and placing her cell phone face down on the table.

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