Page 80 of Sinful Union

That’s enough for now.

Epilogue I

Kat

One week later…

Istand by the casket as light drizzle begins to fall. The day is grey, fitting for a funeral.

Though Pavel had wanted Piotr to be buried in an unmarked grave, we knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. We need to keep up appearances in order to avoid any further fighting. So here we are, pretending.

Everyone in attendance—from low-level enforcers to high-ranking Bratva figures—wears an expression of forced sympathy and tense politeness. They were told Piotr died in a hunting accident.

It’s a convenient lie, one that won’t raise too many questions. No one wants to unravel the possibility that we turned on our own family. If they suspect foul play, they keep it to themselves.

The headline in the media read:Andreev PakhanMeets Tragic Fate in Upstate Woods.

According to unofficial rumors, it was a misfire or perhaps a stray bullet from another hunter. We didn’t bother specifying details. No one wants an open scandal. The only men who know the truth are dead or bound to secrecy by loyalty to Pavel, Vlad, or me.

I glance at my brother’s sealed coffin, resting on a small platform draped in black cloth. My heart wrenches, and I swallow back the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. Even though I hated what Piotr became, a part of me still mourns the little boy who used to tug at my pigtails and hide frogs in my shoes.

A swirl of conflicting emotions churn in my chest—anger, heartbreak, relief—and I can’t decide which one is the strongest.

On my right, Pavel stands tall, projecting authority in his tailored black suit. He stays quiet, simply nodding at those who express condolences. Surrounding us are several members of the Fetisov Bratva, all wearing neutral expressions, offering subdued gestures of respect.

On my left, Vlad leans on a cane, courtesy of the beating our departed brother gave him. He insisted on attending the funeral ceremony on his own two feet.

“Don’t treat me like an invalid,” he’d snarled when I suggested a wheelchair.

Camille helps him stay balanced, her hand discreetly under his elbow, her gaze never leaving him for long.

Vlad’s face is still bruised; purplish shadows mar his cheekbones, but they’re mostly hidden beneath his dark sunglasses. His broken ribs and contusions are slowly healing. I know he’s in pain, but stubbornness and sheer determination keep him going.

Ana stands between Pavel and me. My daughter hasn’t left my side since the day everything exploded. She’s clinging to my hand with a grip so tight it numbs my fingers.

At only five, she doesn’t fully grasp the tragedy behind this funeral.All she knows is that the uncle she adored has died, and she doesn’t understand why. She sniffles, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She thinks it was a real accident, that her Uncle Piotr was the victim of misfortune in the woods.One day, when she’s much older, maybe I’ll explain what really happened, but not now.

Let her grieve a simpler lie.

A hush descends over the small crowd gathered around the casket. Viktor Novikov emerges from behind a cluster of men, stepping forward with measured solemnity. Drizzle speckles his black overcoat; droplets shine on his broad shoulders.He’s flanked by a pair of silent associates.

Novikov bows his head to Vlad and me, a show of respect as hollow as it is necessary. “My condolences,” he says plainly. “Piotr’s death is a loss to the entire community.”

I manage a tight nod, forcing politeness I don’t feel. “Thank you for coming,” I say, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. Novikov is probably attending only to ensure he’s not being blamed for anything. His presence is a power move, an attempt to save face. He knows Piotr’s death means that we now hold both Andreev and Fetisov power. If anything, he’s the one walking on eggshells now.

Pavel steps forward, shaking Novikov’s hand.One of us has to be diplomatic, I suppose.“We appreciate your support,” he says. “It means a great deal that you have come to pay your respects.”

Novikov nods, chancing a quick look at Vlad. Vlad ignores him, focusing on a point in the distance. He’s still seething under the surface—Piotr’s back-door alliance with Novikov nearly destroyed us all.

Vlad limps forward on his cane, careful not to overstrain his injured shoulder and broken ribs.“Viktor,” he says in a low voice. “We should meet tomorrow.”

The newpakhanof the Andreev Bratva has made a request. There’s noshouldabout it.

Novikov’s expression wavers, uncertain. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Vlad repeats. “You and I have matters to resolve.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the tone of his voice and his threatening stance, despite the cane, gives a clear message:Don’t try double-crossing my family again.

Novikov can probably sense how precarious his position is now. He nods in agreement. “Of course,” he says, stepping back. “I’m available at your convenience.” Then, Novikov returns to the crowd of mourners; his men follow.

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