Page 93 of Vasily the Hammer

There aren’t many private spaces for us to watch without anyone seeing us, not with this big of an event. The benches that are pulled out for occasions like this are filled. The loft is, as well, despite rarely being used outside of religious holidays. There’s one space for us to be, and it’s lurking behind a statue of the Virgin Mary that oversees the parishioners from high above the priests giving their sermons. There’s the smallest of lofts here, just big enough for priests to come up periodically to dust the Virgin Mother and fetch the tapestries to wash them so they don’t have to get on a ten-meter ladder for it. As long as we stand behind the statue, no one will see us here.

Below is a sea of mourners from both our families. I have some real concerns about so many crime bosses gathering together.Even beyond my beef with Tony, Bratva and Mafia don’t play well together in this region. Blazing Hell is repping, as well, and I even spot a couple men from Calaveras de Oro, even though they’re no longer active in Flagstaff. Some of the Los Angeles crew, I’m betting.

Kids, too. I tell myself that’s a good thing right now; the men will behave themselves. Miguel’s got Maribel in a black dress, and she’s getting passed around amongst the mother hens. A lot of people have gone to Artom introducing themselves, and he’s doing an incredible job of appearing authentically somber.

One day, he’ll take over my throne, and I can see already that he’ll be incredible at it.

I have so much to teach him. Not about crime, though. About how to lead.

Seemingly in the middle of it all, commanding far more attention than he ever has in his life, is Kostya. He is eating the limelight up, as though it’s his divine right to take over for me, as though this was always his position, I’d just been holding it for him.

I built an empire for him.

I wonder if he’s mad he was handed my ring from the funeral director instead of prying it off my cold, dead finger himself. No matter what he does with his hands now, that ring is visible. My ring.

He’s notpakhan.He’ll never bepakhan.Not because today will end him but because that ring only gets him as far as brigadier andavtoritetof Flagstaff. It’s a far more powerful title than I inherited, one that will make him a millionaire inside of six months. But it won’t make himpakhan,and I don’t think the men who decide that will be so quick to fall for his deceptions.

It’s a tough pill to swallow, knowing I’ve been blind for over a decade. I was actually jealous of him for being removed from the line of succession.

A lot people I don’t recognize are here, as well. Some are mingling together, letting their eyes stray around the church, no doubt comparing the Russian Orthodox set-up to what they’re used to. Ana’s people. But there are also people loitering on the outskirts. I’m sure if I was on the floor level in the thick of it, they wouldn’t stand out in any way, but from this vantage point, it only takes tracking their movements for a couple minutes to figure out they’re undercover, and not in the Benedetti sense. They’re not quietly observing and engineering events to be more favorable to the good citizens of the United States. No, this is a sting. Someone has tipped them off.

Directly below us are two coffins, both closed— obviously— and buried under mounds of white roses. There are pictures of us on stands next to them, but I can’t see the picture from this angle and the coffins are identical. The only way to tell whose is whose is by the way people mourn at them. Camilla leads the charge on that, sobbing and wailing like a crazy person at the foot of the casket below Ana’s, who’s had to look away to keep from laughing.

But some of the grief is authentic, all the people I’ve built genuine relationships with in Flagstaff, who haven’t seen me in a long time but still love me, and despite the distance from Phoenix, there are far more people grieving for Ana.

I’m debating sending everyone care baskets as an apology after this, and my mind is drifting enough to all the millions of tiny and gigantic stress points— like people could actually die here— when Ana smacks my hand.

I don’t even realize why she does it until my fingers brush the hem of my pocket.

Stop, she mouths.

I’m sorry,I mouth back.

She squeezes my hand.

It’s harder when Tony whisks Artom away from Gino and brings him up to the coffin. It looks like he’s forcing Artom up there, like even though Artom knows no one’s really in there, he still doesn’t want to be near them. Understandable. Benedetti is close enough to him that I hear, through her mic, Tony whisper, “That’s your mom there, and that’s your dad. They’re both gone. So you’re mine from now on.”

What the fuck.

But if I’m pissed, Ana is seething like nothing I’ve ever seen before that.

He said that to goad Artom. He wants Artom upset. Fucking asshole.

“Son, it’s going to be okay,” Tony says loudly enough everyone can hear him attempt to be human once Artom does start crying. Hopefully, they’re fake tears. Either way, I’m going to kill Tony extra hard for that.

People gather around, asking who he is. Since he was so young when Ana left Phoenix, it’s not surprising people don’t know him.

Tony, that absolute prick, that fucking ass monger, that walking dead, says, “This is Tom. He’s Ana’s son, but I’ll be raising him from now on. We’re all we have left now. Huh, champ?”

Tom?I mouth to Ana, but she looks as confused as I am about it.

But only briefly.

Tony doesn’t have a wife. From everything I’ve heard, he’s just a weirdo that spends way too much money on prostitutes willing to satisfy some extremely questionable kinks. Some of the rumors indicate that those prostitutes are men. To each their own, but there’s little chance he’ll ever have an heir unless he pays for thattoo. An orphaned nephew is incredibly convenient. We already knew this was his plan.

But he doesn’t want one with a Russian name.

Fucking ass.

---