Page 99 of Filthy Lies

I find him in his study, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in clipped Russian. When he sees me, something in his face changes—softens at the edges.

“I’ll call back,” he says into the phone, then disconnects. “You’re up.”

“Barely.” I sink into the chair across from his desk. My body feels like it’s being dragged underwater. Every movement requires triple the usual effort. “Has Sofiya been okay?”

“She’s been fine.” He studies me. “Food or coffee first?”

“Coffee. Black as hell.”

He nods and presses the intercom. “Coffee for Mrs. Akopov. Black.”

I tug at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Thank you. For handling everything.”

His jaw works. “Did you expect less?”

“Honestly? Yes.” I look up, meeting his gaze directly. “I’m not used to you being…”

“What?”

“Gentle,” I admit. “Patient. I’m used to you being my strength in battle, not my... I don’t know. My safe harbor.”

Something shutters behind his eyes. “You’re my wife.”

“That usually means I’m the one taking care of things.”

“Not today.”

The knock at the door announces the coffee, saving me from having to form a response. I take the steaming mug gratefully, letting the scalding liquid burn away the fog in my head.

“The, um, funeral,” I begin.

“Scheduled for tomorrow at eleven.” Vince leans back in his chair. “Private service. Security in place. Your mother’s friends and colleagues have been notified.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“I missed one thing.” He pulls a folder from his desk drawer. “I need you to look at these.”

I set down the coffee and take the folder. Inside are glossy photographs of gravestones—elegant, minimalist designs in varying shades of granite and marble. “I didn’t know what she would have wanted,” Vince says, almost apologetically.

I can only stare at them. Just when I think I’m starting to turn a corner, something like this comes up, a moment you always knew was coming but never quite figured out how to brace for.

“The gray one,” I finally manage. “With the slanted top. She’d say the others were too ostentatious.”

Vince nods and takes the folder back. “Consider it done.”

The funeral is a dizzy haze of black cloth and murmured condolences. People I barely remember from my childhood appear to pay respects. Mom’s colleagues from before her illness speak of her intelligence, her dedication, her uncompromising work ethic.

No one mentions how she smuggled a child out of Brighton Beach to escape a crime lord. No one knows she spent decades looking over her shoulder, expecting retribution that never came.

They don’t know how much of herself she carved away to keep me safe.

But I know.

Ifucking know.

Vince stands beside me throughout, his hand firm at the small of my back. Sofiya is mercifully quiet in Arkady’s arms, fascinated by the solemn ceremony.

She doesn’t know death yet. Doesn’t understand that the woman who held her just days ago is now sealed in polished wood, descending into the cold earth.

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