1
Nadia
Paris
No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.
Terry Pratchett
Every Bratva in Paris came to the funeral of Samara Turgenev. Beautiful, intelligent, and ruthless, she had run the law firm that had kept them all out of prison at one time or another. They came to pay their respects, laying white roses on her casket until all that could be seen of the dark, polished wood were the shadows between the thick weave of leaves and blooms.
The men wore black suits, the women sleek and stylish dresses, with chic black hats and veils. They poured into the ancient Père Lachaise cemetery, where Samara would be laid to rest in the Turgenev mausoleum, a striking stone edifice whose doorway was flanked by two avenging angels. The angels were not the beatific beings of Renaissance paintings—one brandished a sword, the other a spear, their faces promising retribution upon those who dared to shed the blood of this noble Russian family.
The only problem in this instance was that the perpetrators were Turgenevs themselves. Those assembled had already attended the funerals of Viktor, Kostya, Adrian, Fedor, Filip, Climent, and Olgov. Conspirators and victims alike, slaughtered at a family dinner, now lay interred side-by-side within the same stone tomb.
Nadia Turgenev could see the few survivors of that dinner standing at the head of her mother’s casket. Her cousins Roman and Violet Turgenev, and Violet’s fiancé Anton Vasilev.
The Triumvirate. The new heads of the family.
Or, what little remained of it.
Nadia was sick to her core of all things Bratva, all things family.
She was putting her mother in the ground today because of the corruption of the family.
She hated every mourner present.
She hated the sun shining down on her mother’s grave, which should have been cold, pouring rain.
And most of all she hated herself.
She had always loved being a mafia princess—until now.
She’d loved the money, the parties, the clothes, the connections. With the Turgenev name she could get on any list for nightclubs, galleries, fashion shows, concerts. She could buy anything she liked, drive any car she liked, fly anywhere she wanted.
She’d been a child, reveling in all her toys.
And like a child, she’d never paid much attention to her mother.
Samara Turgenev was brilliant and impressive, but she was also cold. She’d been highly invested in her law firm, much less so in her daughter.
And Nadia, in return, maintained a cordial but distant relationship with her mother. They mostly saw one another at family events where the room was full of other Turgenevs, where they never had to be alone together.
Now Nadia regretted that carelessness with all her heart.
Why hadn’t she tried harder to spend time with her mother? To talk with her as adults? To learn who she really was?
It was too late now. The corpse in the casket could tell her nothing.
Samara Turgenev’s secrets would go to the grave.
Nadia could see silent tears running down Violet’s face.
Violet had been there when Samara was stabbed to death by their own cousin. Violet had been trapped in that same tiny room, that kill box. She would have taken a knife to the chest just like Samara, if not for the intervention of her fiancé Anton, as well as a good bit of luck.
Nadia knew that Violet felt horribly guilty. It was her and Roman’s succession to their father’s empire that had prompted the bloody coup. But Violet was the only person Nadia didn’t blame. Violet had been raised completely apart from the Turgenevs in London. She was only just learning about their world.
It was Nadia who had willfully ignored the secrets and lies all around her.
