Page 14 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“Roman,” he says. My name sounds wrong in his mouth. “I was just leaving. Wanted to pay my respects one last time before heading out.”

“Touching.”

The associate takes this as his cue to escape and mumbles something about getting his car. He’s out the door before Anton can stop him.

Anton takes a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving mine. “Hell of a funeral. Dmitri would’ve hated it. All that pomp and ceremony. He always preferred things more... intimate.”

“Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Just making small talk. It’s what we do at wakes, isn’t it? Talk about the deceased, drink his liquor, pretend we’re all one big happy family.” He gestures with his glass, and some of the scotch sloshes over the rim. “Though I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here. Didn’t think you’d show your face so soon after... well, after everything.”

I don’t take the bait. Anton wants me to react, to give him something he can use later. I’ve seen him work this routine before, usually on men stupider than I am.

“If you’re done, the door’s right there.”

“In a minute.” He sets his glass down on the console table, right on the polished wood without a coaster. Oksana would lose her mind if she saw that.

“I wanted to ask you about this Zabota business. Interesting move, claiming the widow so quickly.”

I can hear movement upstairs. Anton hears it, too, and his eyes flick toward the staircase.

Vera appears at the top of the stairs. Her eyes find mine, then shift to Anton... and something in her posture changes. Her shoulders go back and her chin lifts, but I can see her hand tighten on the banister.

She remembers him. Whatever Dmitri told her about his underboss, it wasn’t good.

“Mrs. Volkonsky,” Anton calls up to her. His voice is warm. “I was just leaving. Wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for your loss. Dmitri was... one of a kind.”

She descends the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister.

“Thank you, Mr. Grishin,” she says when she reaches the bottom. Her voice is like ice. “That’s kind of you to say. How will you be getting home? I see you’ve been drinking.”

“Oh, I’ll have my chauffeur take me.”

“Good. See that he drives safely.” There’s an edge to her voice that makes my pulse kick up. From Vera, it almost sounds like a threat.

Anton’s eyes move over her with an assessment that makes my hands curl into fists. He’s taking in every detail of her appearance. His smile widens just a fraction.

“I hope you’re holding up alright,” he says. “It must be difficult, losing a husband so suddenly. So violently.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. “Though I see you have Roman here to... comfort you. How fortunate.”

Vera’s face doesn’t change, but I see the slight hitch in her breathing.

“Roman is observing Zabota,” she says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a brittleness underneath. “As is proper.”

“Of course, of course. Very proper.” Anton picks up his scotch again and drains the rest of it in one swallow. “I just think it’s remarkable how quickly grief can be alleviated. One minute you’re burying your husband, the next you’re...” He trails off, gesturing vaguely between us. “Moving on already, I suppose.”

I cross the distance between us in three strides. Anton doesn’t step back, but his grip on the glass tightens enough that I can hear it creak.

“Careful,” I say quietly. My voice is low enough that Vera probably can’t hear it from where she’s standing. “You’re about to say something you’ll regret.”

“Am I?” Anton’s breath smells like scotch and something sour underneath. “I’m just stating facts, Roman. You show up at your brother’s funeral after, what, ten years? By the end of the day, you’ve claimed his widow and moved her into your protection. That’s not suspicious at all.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m observing.” He glances past me to where Vera stands. “She looks well-fucked, by the way. In case you were wondering if people could tell.”

The rage that floods through me is white-hot and immediate. My hand is around his throat before I consciously decide to move, and I’m shoving him back against the wall hard enough that the empty glass falls from his hand and shatters on the marble floor.

Anton makes a choked sound. His hands come up to grab my wrist, but I don’t let go. I can feel his pulse jumping beneath my fingers.