64. Chapter 64

64

Leonid

Two hours later

T he first raindrops hit my windshield as the convoy rolls to a stop. Behind us, three identical black SUVs form a barrier between my car and the treeline. Only a fool wouldn't have men positioned among those ancient oaks.

"Twenty of ours spread through the trees," Maksim murmurs from the driver's seat, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "Another fifteen by the mausoleums. We have better angles if this goes south."

I adjust my cufflinks—gold. The weight feels right. "And the ground team?"

"Twenty-eight scattered among the mourners." His lips quirk. "Though I doubt anyone's actually mourning. Half these people probably wanted to kill her themselves."

My laugh comes out harder than intended. Clara would appreciate that—knowing her enemies showed up to weep crocodile tears over her empty casket.

" Suka 's getting desperate." I check my Glock, the familiar weight settling something in my chest. "All his failed attempts to get to her, and he thinks an empty box will fix his fuck up? Amateur."

Maksim's reflection grins in the rearview. "Maybe he's hoping the audience makes you behave."

"When have I ever?" The leather seat creaks as I lean forward. "How many of his men showed up for the circus?"

"Twelve by the gate. Another eight trying to blend in with the civilians." He drums his fingers on the wheel. "Want us to thin the crowd a bit? Dmitry's boys are getting bored."

The memory of Clara's fury before she collapsed makes my jaw clench. Maksim's little improvisation with the sedative... Part of me wants to put a bullet in him for that stunt. But another part—the part that's seen too many coffins that weren't empty—whispers maybe he had the right idea. Chaining her up starts to sound reasonable when the alternative is watching Stephan put her in the ground for real.

"She's going to kill us both when she wakes up," Maksim says, like he's commenting on the weather. "Probably start with your balls. I’m guessing she’ll save me for dessert."

I glance at him, debating whether to dignify that with a response. The memory of Clara’s fury—those blue eyes cutting like a storm before she collapsed—flares to life. My jaw tightens, and I look back out the window. The rain streaks the glass, softening the shapes of the mourners gathered ahead.

“She’s not risking her life here,” I say finally, the words low and even. “That’s what matters.”

Maksim snorts. “Touching. Almost romantic. Should I get you flowers to hand her when she wakes up? Maybe a card that says, ‘Sorry I didn’t stop the sedative.’”

The urge to break his nose flashes hot, but I push it down. The now is what matters. The rain falls heavier, turning the cemetery into a tableau of umbrellas and wet grass. A flash of lightning forks across the horizon, pulling my attention back to the task at hand.

"No civilian casualties," I tell Maksim, tucking the phone away. "But his security? Consider it a graduation present for the new recruits."

Maksim's grin turns feral. "Been a while since The Raven had a proper bloodbath. The boys will be thrilled."

Through the tinted windows, I watch the cemetery sprawl out like a chessboard. Ancient oaks loom over marble headstones, their shadows stretching long across the wet grass. Historic mausoleums dot the grounds, their weathered stone offering perfect cover for anyone planning to start a war at a funeral. The mourners cluster near a fresh grave, black umbrellas blooming like deadly flowers. At the center, a mahogany casket draped in white lilies sits ready for its performance.

"Stephan really went all out," Maksim says, nodding toward the string quartet huddled under a nearby tent. "The flowers alone must have cost—"

"Lilies," I cut him off. “I’m sure that’s not her favorite.” I study the flowers draped across the casket, wondering what she actually prefers. Roses would be too obvious for someone like Clara. Maybe something with thorns, or those blue flowers that can kill if you're not careful. The kind of beauty that demands respect.

The door handle digs into my palm as I step out into the rain. Water beads on my suit jacket—Italian wool, chosen for the way it conceals my shoulder holster. Clara would probably have an opinion about it. She seems to have opinions about everything else.

The crowd parts as I approach, whispers following in my wake. Some clutch their purses closer. Others reach for concealed weapons. A woman in Chanel sobs into a handkerchief—probably one of Stephan's plants. The performance would be amusing if it didn't make my trigger finger itch.

Maksim gives a signal to Dmitry, who's leading the the rest of the men; they fan out, slipping into the crowd, behind trees. Weapons visible.

I fix my eyes on Stephan. He's still playing his part by the casket, handkerchief dabbing at dry eyes. The sight of him standing near Clara’s portrait makes me see red.

My shoes sink slightly in the wet grass with each step. The distance between us shrinks—fifteen feet, ten, five.

Close enough now to see the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his tie.

Close enough to notice how his security detail tenses, hands hovering near concealed weapons.

Maksim is at my side, black umbrella tilted to shield us both, though the cold drizzle pricks my face anyway.

But the ublyudok doesn’t see me yet; he’s too busy holding court, shaking hands and murmuring platitudes like he’s a goddamn politician.

I recognize every face he greets—casino owners who launder our competition's money, dock workers who conveniently forget to check certain containers, cops who know when to look the other way. All here to see which way the power will shift. A funeral's just another networking event when you're swimming with sharks.

Maksim steps closer. “Half of these people are his,” he mutters. His eyes scan the crowd, cataloging faces. “The other half are here for the free wine.”

A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth, brief and humorless. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and cut flowers. The priest drones on about eternal rest.

But the whispers around the crowd swell, a ripple of unease spreading through the air. I step forward, letting my men fan out subtly behind me. Maksim’s hand signals to Dmitry’s crew near the mausoleums, their presence blending into the shadows but unmistakable to anyone paying attention.

Stephan’s gaze finally lands on me. His eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of recognition sparking there as the pieces click into place. His handkerchief freezes mid-motion, no longer dabbing at eyes that were never wet. The silence stretches a second too long. He spots Maksim next, and then Dmitry’s men stationed among the tombstones. The truth hits him like a hammer.

The game has shifted.

With a steady hand, he folds the handkerchief neatly and slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

As his hand lingers, his fingers graze the cool steel of the gun hidden beneath the fabric. A fleeting touch, more instinct than necessity, but enough to ground him. He smooths the lapel of his jacket, exhaling quietly before clearing his throat,

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” He clear his throat, “ Leonid Kuznetsov .”

“Of course you didn’t.” My lips twitch.

“Why would I miss the chance to pay my respects?”

His jaw shifts, a faint muscle jumping as he keeps his composure. He lets his gaze flick over my men, then back to me, his eyes narrowing. “Come to disrupt a funeral?” His voice dips lower, “Even for the Kuznetsov Bratva, this is a particularly tasteless stunt.”

I stop beside Clara's portrait. The rain beads on the glass, distorting her smile.

“Tasteless?” I glance at him, my tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Stephan?”

Stephan doesn’t move back. Instead, he straightens, his posture tightening as two of his men edge closer.

The rain picks up, drumming against the umbrellas, soaking into leather and fabric alike. I take another step toward the casket, narrowing the distance between us. Up close, I see how Stephan’s performance works—the controlled presence, the way he plays the role of protector so convincingly. It’s the same act that let him manipulate Clara for years, wrapping her in a web of lies while pretending to be the steady hand she needed.

Suka blyad . He’s good, I’ll give him that.

“Bold of you to host,” I say, stepping closer, my hands sliding casually into my pockets. The rain patters against my shoulders, soaking through the wool of my jacket, but I don’t move to adjust it. I hold his gaze instead, watching the flicker of calculation cross his face as he braces himself for whatever comes next.

“Considering it’s your fault she almost ended up in one for real.”

He’s catching up.

I smirk. “I’m here to make sure it’s you we bury today.”

He recovers quickly, his head tilting just slightly, a subtle signal. His eyes flick to the left, then back to me. A message. An order.

I glance at the edges of the crowd as some of the mourners begin to peel away, their murmurs rising above the patter of rain. They’ve seen enough. They know when to clear out before blood spills. I let them leave. The fewer distractions, the better.

Stephan clears his throat, his hands brushing over his lapels with exaggerated calm, like he’s already moved on. But I see the tension in his jaw, the barely-there tremor in his fingers. He’s rattled, even if he’s too arrogant to show it outright.

“You think you’re clever?” he finally says, his voice dropping low, almost a growl. “Playing your little games while—”

The movement behind Maksim catches my eye. One of Stephan's men, thinking he's subtle.

I don’t answer Stephan. Couldn’t be bothered. Words won’t end this.

My Glock clears leather in a single motion. The shot cracks the air before his man has time to react. The bullet tears through his throat, and he collapses, gurgling, blood spilling onto the wet grass. The crowd freezes for a beat, then erupts into mayhem—screams, umbrellas dropping, people scrambling for cover.

Time to shut this bastard down.

I swing my aim back to Stephan, but he’s already moving. His hand dives into his jacket, pulling out a sleek pistol. His men surge forward to shield him, but they’re too late. My reflexes take over as I pivot to the side, avoiding his first shot by inches. The crack of his gunfire echoes across the cemetery, shattering a marble angel near my shoulder.

My second shot finds him just above the knee, and he drops with a guttural curse, one hand gripping the slick, rain-soaked headstone for balance. Blood pours from the wound, painting the stone in violent streaks. He looks up at me, raw fury twisting his face.

“Fucking shoot them!” he bellows, his voice hoarse with pain. His men respond instantly, drawing weapons and firing as Maksim’s voice cuts through the chaos.

“Get down!” Maksim barks, his Glock already spitting bullets. His grin is feral, adrenaline-fueled, as he ducks behind a tombstone and returns fire. Dmitry’s men descend from the treeline, their movements calculated and precise, tearing through Stephan’s security with ruthless efficiency.

Bullets ricochet off the statues and mausoleums, the cemetery erupting into a battlefield. I crouch behind the shattered angel, my breath steady as I reload. Rain mixes with the acrid tang of gunpowder, and I hear the distant bark of Dmitry’s orders over the bedlam.

Stephan drags himself up, his face pale but his movements frantic. His eyes dart between me and his men, calculating his odds. Coward . His bloody hand catches the collar of one of his men, yanking him into position. The shield flails, panic etched across his face as Stephan shoves him forward to block my line of sight.

“Really?” I mutter, rising from cover and firing again. The shield jerks violently as the bullet rips through his side, dropping him instantly. Stephan stumbles toward a waiting SUV, his remaining security closing ranks around him.

The tires screech as they pull him into the car, the vehicle lurching through the mud and scattering mourners in its wake.

Maksim appears at my side, his Glock still raised, his breathing measured despite the carnage around us. “Want me to chase him down?”

I lower my weapon, watching the taillights fade into the distance. “No,” I say, Ludis has got this.”