Not why, though. I knew why someone would kill them.
My father, Denis Morozova, was head of the Bratva in New York. He had a lot of enemies, even though he never told my sisters or me about who those could be. He tried to keep us sheltered, but you can only be sheltered for so long when you belong to the Bratva. It holds you in a tight grip and never lets you go.
It holds me now as my father’s coffin is fully laid into the ground. The Bratva will only hold me tighter in its grip. Because my father is dead, and my sisters and I are not safe.
I gaze around at the other attendees. Mostly men, with a few women sprinkled in. The more I look around, the more acutely aware I am my sisters and I are the youngest women there. The other women are wives to the men who worked for and with my father. They’re all strangers to me, though, so I just assume they were coworkers. A spike of fear goes down my spine at the thought that a lot of these men might be enemies. That they might even be the men who killed my father and mother.
My mother. My poor, sweet mother. Ania Morozova did not deserve to die. Where my father filled our world with darkness, my mother filled it with light. She showed each of us affection, never playing favorites. I know we all loved her, and her death hits the hardest because she was an innocent. She didn’t have enemies, but being associated with my father put a target on her back.
I’m amazed my sisters and I are alive, but I know the target that went after our parents will come after us next.
The only way to protect ourselves is through marriage, which scares me. I’m twenty-two, which may be too young to be married to non-Bratva people, but to the Bratva, I’m more than old enough. I know my father kept us protected. He could have married us off at a younger age, but he didn’t.
And now, as I look around at the men gazing at us with lust and darkness, I know we won’t be spared. These men are coming for us. They want to eat us alive.
We don’t have a man in our lives who can protect us. We’re all alone.
I should be focused only on grieving right now, but instead, my brain and body are filled with fear.
I turn to Viktoryia for guidance, but she has her eyes glued to the caskets. A stony expression covers her eyes. Vik is the Ice Queen. She rarely shows emotion, and when she does, it’s usually contempt. Right now, I need my big sister—but who does she have?
Her fine blonde hair looks even lighter in the gray afternoon sky. Her eyes don’t speak to what she’s feeling. She’s unmovable. The Ice Queen, for sure.
I turn to Mila, who’s now sniffling instead of sobbing. She’s golden-haired and the most cherubic, heavenly-looking of us. At eighteen, she’s the youngest and most innocent. I know our father favored her the most. His “little angel,” as he called her.
He called Vik is strong daughter. But me … well, I was only ever Sofiya. I think that, as a middle child, he sometimes forgot about me. It used to hurt, but now, it lessens my grief. I know I’ll get over his death sooner than I will my mother’s.
The thought of my mom being dead causes a sob to escape me. I’ve been trying to hold it in for Mila’s sake, but I can’t any longer. It comes out of me, and there’s no stopping.
“Pull yourself together,” Vik snaps quietly. “Everyone’s looking.”
Her words bring me right back to the situation we’re in. I wipe my tears as my eyes meet the gaze of a man in the crowd. A lot of people came out for my father’s funeral. My sisters and I didn’t invite any of these people, but here they are. The man smiles slowly at me, almost … seductively. His eyes rake over my body. The sight of it makes me shiver. He’s not a handsome man. Far from it. His large belly strains against his suit jacket. But even if he were handsome, I would still be scared. It doesn’t matter what a man looks like—handsome or ugly. If he wants to hurt you, he will.
I know a lot of the men here want to hurt us. I see it in their eyes. They want to control us. They want to put us in our place for having a father who was the leader of the Bratva. They want us to feel pain.
I tighten my arm around Mila’s shoulders, pulling her closer to me. If there’s one thing I can do in this world, it’s at least try to protect Mila. The sad reality is, I’m not sure Vik will try as hard.
Vik steps forward to throw dirt onto our father’s casket. I watch as all the men look at her like she’s a prized, elusive deer to be hunted. They want to mount her head on a wall. Vik doesn’t show any concern. She keeps her nose held high, reminding the men around us she’s still Denis Morozova’s daughter. She’s worthy of respect. I admire her strength. I wish I had the capability to show that nothing ever bothers me. It’s what makes Vik so admirable, but it’s also what makes her tough to be around. My older sister isn’t exactly known for her warmth.
She throws dirt onto our mother’s casket next. She doesn’t waste her time. Get in, do what you have to do, and get out. She returns to my side, still not looking at me.
Then it’s my turn. I bring Mila with me as we approach our parents' graves. Mila stumbles like she’s incapable of standing on her own. I pick up some dirt and toss it into each of their graves. Mila doesn’t move. She only clings to me tighter.
I see how the men smirk and laugh like her pain is amusing. Like she’s a little girl, which makes it ok to mock and ridicule her. But it’s not ok. None of this is ok. My parents should never have been killed. My sisters and I should never have been in this position to fend for ourselves against men more powerful than us.
I want to tell these men off, but I don’t have the courage. I look to Vik. Help us, I mouth to her.
Her eyes flick over to the laughing men, and she steps forward. “Do you think this is funny?”
A few of the men immediately frown, but a few others continue to smirk like Vik is the paid entertainment for the evening. Except this is a funeral. There’s no entertainment anywhere.
“Our parents are dead,” Vik continues. “My youngest sister is crying, and you’re laughing at her. You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is not how you conduct yourself at a funeral. Learn some fucking manners.” My sister rarely cusses, so when she does, I know she’s using it for impact.
Her scolding puts a couple more into their place, but there’s still one man smirking. Vik gazes him down until his smirk slowly leaves his face. Then she turns back to me with a nod and resumes her composure.
I’m so grateful for Vik at this moment. She used her coldness to her advantage. She’s not afraid like I am. She’s not shy like I am. At twenty-five years old, she’s had more time to find her voice. But just like Mila and me, she’s been kept sheltered from the world. Our father never let us date.
I guess we’re free now to date, I think as I look at the caskets, which are now six feet into the ground. The thought doesn’t provide me with excitement. It only fills me with horror.
I pick up some dirt and hand it to Mila. “Here. Toss it in.”
She nods through her tears and does as I instruct. The moment she’s done, we hurry back to Vik’s side. The coldness emanating from Vik is a comfort right now. It’s keeping the men at bay. They don’t want to cross the Ice Queen.
The service ends, but now, it’s to the reception, which means we’ll have to mingle with the men who attended our parents’ funeral. I think I’m going to vomit.
The three of us hurry to our car and get in. Our driver, John, glances back at us. “Ready to go?”
No, I want to say, but Vik speaks first. “Yes.” I look at her, and she shrugs. “I want to get this day over with. No use sitting in the car waiting around. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can start to move on.”
“You make it sound easy,” I say.
“I never said it was easy. Don’t put words into my mouth, Sofiya.”
Properly scolded, I sit back into my seat, my arms still around Mila. She hasn’t stopped clinging to me since we arrived for the funeral.
“Thank you,” I muster up the strength to say to Vik. “For standing up for us.”
“I did it for Mila. I hated seeing those men mock her. She didn’t deserve that.”
