On August 10, 2004, Nikkita died at 9:45 a.m. Valentina got the news at ten. She broke down crying. Mikhael and Sonya stayed with her.

“I’m so sorry,” Sonya said. Valentina sobbed harder.

It still came as a shock. The doctors couldn’t give an exact date. Some thought he had a few more weeks. A few were surprised he hung on that long. Theories ran around the underworld. Some thought it was murder. Made sense in a way. Maybe someone sot to finish him off. Seemed just right. Someone could dress up like a doctor or a nurse, walk inside, finish him off with a simple syringe, and slip away. So easy. Too easy. But not likely. That didn’t matter to Valentina. She lost her father.

She had to be the one to take control. Funeral prep, paperwork, the wedding, and so much more.

“I can’t do this,” Valentia said. Boris put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, tired.

“I will help you,” Boris said. Valentina just stared at him. She looked dead inside.

Mikhael almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“I don’t know what to do here,” he admitted. She was a controlling bitch, sure. But she loved her father so much. Plus, some of the men would move to kill her now. That didn’t seem right. Looked like he would have to stay. Mikhael clicked his tongue.

“Damn it,” he said to himself. He turned to see one of the men staring at him. Could the boy trust him? Was he “good” or bad? (Ha! “Good.”) There needed to be an easier way to sort this out. He would have to talk to Boris. But first came the wake and the funeral. Mikhael took a breath.

RIP Nikit Popova

July 14, 1957-August 10, 2004