Anna Tokarev had arrived dressed in a stylish black dress, a wide-brimmed hat complete with black veil tilted at a suitably dramatic angle, her white lace hanky at the ready. Maybe her tears were even for real now and then. Andrej wanted to believe they were, wanted to believe she’d cry for her son if not her husband, but he’d never been able to read Anna and he just couldn’t tell. Unlike her mother, Mariya had cried openly when he’d brought her Misha’s weapon and told her he was sorry for her loss. She’d shed her tears grudgingly, as though she considered them a weakness, but she hadn’t tried to hide them from Andrej.
“Will you swear your allegiance?” she’d asked, slender fingers wrapped around the cold metal with an easy familiarity that would’ve shocked her father. “Will you fight for me like you did for my brother?”
“No,” Andrej had answered, because he’d only ever followed Misha and that wasn’t going to change. “I’m done with this. When Misha quit, so did I.”
She didn’t need him anyway. She was taking over already, directing the guests, receiving their condolences with cool grace, her husband and daughters always a respectful step behind her. The entire East Coast branch of the syndicate was present and accounted for, but the expected power plays weren’t happening. Mariya had them well in hand, had stretched her wings and was flying as though she’d been born to it, confident in her
leadership ability as Misha never had been. Power suited her, Andrej observed, not without pride. He’d never seen her look so alive.
Anton stood at Mariya’s side through it all, showing his support and scaring off any potential troublemakers. He was still a legend among these killers, a boogeyman dressed in a crisp suit, watching them all with dead eyes. He looked old. He’d looked old since they’d buried Misha. Well. An empty coffin with a framed picture of Misha in it, and the knife he’d used to kill his first man. Misha’s body hadn’t been found.
“He’s with God now,” the priest had claimed, all patronizing kindness.
Andrej preferred to believe that Misha was with Riley.
It made him happier.
He listened to the whole ashes-to-ashes spiel, thinking of Misha going out in a blaze of glory with Riley and McClane. He thought of the look on Misha’s face when Riley had let him make that choice, hadn’t tried to push him away. So happy to be allowed to die with the one he loved. Crazy bastard. Crazy, lucky bastard.