Page 121 of Vendetta Crown

They want to gauge what happens next.

The priest finishes his prayer. Sofia's sob punctuates the silence. Mikayla raises her chin in defiance of her pain. For a moment, she looks just like her mother.

Aurora shifts Stella to one hip, her free hand reaching toward Mikayla, who takes it like a lifeline.

"Come," my wife says softly to my nieces, handing them each a clump of dirt to throw into the grave. "Your mother loved you. Never forget that."

Not "your mother was a monster" or "your mother betrayed us." Just the essential truth that matters to three grieving girls: Tamara loved them, despite everything else.

I watch Aurora guide them around the grave. And as each one tosses a handful of dirt within, a fresh wail of sorrow rises.

When the respects have been paid around Tamara's grave and the dirt is sealed, the other pakhans begin to gather around me as we make our way to the chapel for the funerary mass.

I notice Gregor hanging back, making no moves to join us, but that hardly matters now. Several of the undecided pakhans that had been at the fringe now drift toward me.

Potyomkin approaches first. I can't help a slight smile at the sight of Vera's delicate hand clasped firmly in his.

"My condolences for your loss, Ruslan Vitalyevich," Potyomkin says, his permanent scowl softening slightly. "The loss of family is always difficult."

I accept his words with a gracious nod. Everyone present knows the enmity between Tamara and myself. But the formality of mourning requires certain courtesies, even when they ring hollow.

Dmitri Balakirev sidles up beside me, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Now is the time, Ruslan. Most of theVoriare here. Gregor stands isolated." His eyes dart meaningfully toward the old man. "If you were to declare yourself pakhan of pakhans in this moment, no man would dare defy you."

Ivan Svarikov nods emphatically. "Dmitri Rodionovich is right. Tamara being buried without Semyon or any other Mikonov is telling. And Gregor's agreement with Semyon has left his influence at an all-time low." He gestures broadly. "TheVoriare ready for new leadership."

But my eyes turn towards where my nieces stand with my mother and Aurora.

The opportunity before me is undeniable. With one declaration, I could cement my position. TheVoriwould follow. Gregor would not dare oppose me.

But to do so would require sending everyone other than the pakhans away. It would diminish this day of mourning, turning a funeral into a power play.

Worse, it would be a final insult to my nieces, who have just lost their mother.

"No," I say finally, watching Aurora gather the girls closer. "Not today."

Balakirev looks stunned. "But the opportunity?—"

"Will still exist tomorrow," I cut him off. "Today is for family."

Voronin's expression darkens as he grips my arm.

"The opportunity willnotexist tomorrow," he hisses, his voice urgent. "By tomorrow, Gregor will shape a narrative to his liking. The moment must be now."

Korsakov nods, stepping closer. "TheVoriare assembled. They watch for signs of weakness. If you delay, they'll interpret it as hesitation."

Their faces press in around me, and the funeral fades to background noise. I scan the graveyard again with new eyes. What I had taken as respect now feels like vultures circling.

"Declare yourself pakhan of pakhans," Voronin insists. "We will back you."

I stiffen, suddenly aware of the trap forming around me. These men aren't offering support.

They're issuing an ultimatum.

Take power now, on their terms, or lose their backing entirely.

If I refuse their push, they'll paint me as indecisive. Weak. Unable to seize the moment.

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