Page 4 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

Fair point. I cross the space to where the brass plaques line the walls. My mother’s name is there, third from the left. Irina Volkonskaya. Beloved wife and mother. The sentiment is bullshit, but the plaque is real enough.

“What do you want from me?” Vera asks. Her voice is steadier now.

I don’t answer right away. I’m studying her in the dim light filtering through the small window high on the wall. She’s thinner than she was three years ago, when I watched her walk down the aisle in a white dress and veil from a screen thousands of miles away. Her cheekbones are sharper, and there are shadows under her eyes that makeup can’t quite hide.

Three years of marriage to my brother did that.

“You know,” I say, turning back to the plaques, “Dmitri and I were close once. When we were kids.”

“I don’t care about your childhood.”

“You should.” I trace my finger along the edge of my mother’s plaque. The brass is cold and smooth. “It’s relevant.”

Vera shifts her weight. The gravel outside crunches as someone walks past, and her head turns toward the sound. Calculating her escape route, probably.

Smart girl.

“We were inseparable,” I continue. “We were fraternal twins, not identical. He was always the charming one. The one who could talk his way out of anything.” I pause. “I was the one who cleaned up his messes.”

“Fascinating,” she says. Her tone is flat. “Can you get to the point? I have a wake to attend.”

I turn to face her. “Do you really want to go back there? Do you want to stand in a room full of people who pretend to care about him, talking about what a great man he was?”

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t answer, which is an answer in itself.

“That’s what I thought.”

I move away from the wall and sit on the stone bench that runs along the far side of the mausoleum. It’s cold even through my suit pants. I gesture to the space beside me.

“Sit.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

The silence stretches between us. Outside, the rain has picked up again. I can hear it drumming against the roof.

“Ten years ago,” I say, “Dmitri framed me for betrayal. He made it look like I was stealing from the family, selling information to our competitors. He was thorough about it, too. He even had witnesses testify against me.”

Vera’s still standing by the door, but her posture has changed. She’s listening now.

“Our father believed him. Why wouldn’t he? Dmitri was his golden boy. I was just...” I shrug. “Expendable.”

“What happened to you?”

“Exile.” The word tastes like ash in my mouth even now.

She shakes her head. Her hair is damp, clinging to her temples. The pale gray-blue light filtering through the windows makes her look like she’s underwater. She’s beautiful.

“I learned things in that time. For example, how to kill without leaving evidence.”

Her breath catches. It’s a small sound, but I hear it bounce off the cold stone walls.

“You’re wondering if I’m threatening you,” I say. “I’m not. I’m telling you what I became while Dmitri was here, living my life. Marrying you.”

That gets a reaction. Her chin lifts, and her eyes narrow. “He didn’t marry me because of you.”

“No?” I stand and move toward her. She doesn’t back away, which surprises me. “He married you because your father owed money. A lot of money. He had debts that would’ve gotten him killed if someone didn’t clear them.”