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.”

But I did? I want to ask, but I know it’s futile. Vik is a stubborn woman and doesn’t change her opinion easily.

When we were kids, our father pitted us against each other. He wanted to see who could be the smartest in school, who would be the prettiest as we got older, and who would be the most capable of landing a good husband. Because Mila was Father’s favorite, he never pitted her against Vik or me.

There’s been a strain between us ever since. We don’t exactly hate each other, but we don’t exactly like each other either.

We arrive at the reception, which is being held at our house. I didn’t want it to be because I figured it would be weird to have random men coming and going from our most intimate place. But Vik insisted. She said we should be proud of our home—our parents’ home—and we should welcome the guests into it.

Our house is a large mansion in the suburbs on the city's outskirts. Father didn’t think it would be appropriate for us to grow up within the city, seeing as he thought the city was for vagabonds and degenerates. I always thought that sounded old-fashioned, but I guess my father was an old-fashioned sort of guy.

He became ruler of the Bratva when he was thirty, which was back in the ‘80s. He learned how to rule in a day when women weren’t as respected as they are now—if women are even respected today because, right now, it doesn’t feel like it. The way those men laughed at our pain says we’re not respected at all.

Father was in his seventies when he died. Mother was only in her fifties. They had a large age gap, which I know made my mother uncomfortable. I always got the sense she never quite wanted to be with our father. She would shy away from his touch. She would leave the room when he entered it. That’s how it had been since I was a little girl. My father didn’t seem to mind it. I think he liked having a younger, pretty trophy wife on his arm to parade around for his men. It’s sickening, the thought of that. The way he could shelter my sisters and me but not our mother.

Honestly, the way he tried to shelter us only showed just how old-fashioned he was. It was like he was obsessed with us being innocent. I was never sure why—not until today when I saw the men looking at us with lust-filled eyes. These men—these adult, much older men—want us for our innocence.

We have to protect it even more at all costs.

Vik glides out of the car with a gracefulness I always envied. The three of us are all ballet dancers—something my father insisted we become. We all know how to move gracefully, but Vik is the best of us. She’s picturesque. Her body is the perfect ballet body—tall and lithe. Mila and I are a little shorter, with Mila being the most round out of us. She’s petite and light, which works in her favor, but I’m just average. Average height, average weight. Not too thin but not too fat. Not too tall, but not too short. I’ve always been invisible compared to my more striking sisters.

That’s ok. I’ve grown used to it. In fact, it works in my favor. Men don’t look at me like they do them. Maybe I’ll get out of this situation scot-free.

We enter the house, which is somehow already filled with the men from the funeral. Our maid, Sarah, must have let them in. Seeing them in our house without our permission sends me into a panic. I grip my chest to calm my heartbeat, but I have to bend over to catch my breath.

“Stand up straight,” Vik says. “Don’t embarrass us, Sofiya.”

I suck in a breath and do as Vik says. I will not embarrass our family. I will help protect our family.

We enter the living room where men are lounging on the couch, their feet on the coffee table as if this is a casual get-together with friends rather than a funeral. There are men everywhere. In the hallways, in the kitchen, eating food and laughing. Spit leaves their mouths as they laugh. It’s disgusting. It’s a violation how they take over our home.

“What do we do?” Mila asks, her doe eyes widening.

I want to curl into my bed and cry. That’s what I want to do.

But once again, Vik answers for us. “We talk. We accept condolences. And then we get these men out of our house.”

We stand in a line in the living room, each trying to look strong. For Vik, it comes easy. But Mila looks scared, and I’m sure I don’t look any different.

A man approaches us—the same one who smiled at me back at the funeral. The one with the large belly. “Ladies, I am Boris Smirnov. I’d like to talk to you in private. Right now.”