Of course now she hardly ever ate like that. Because she had to stay slim and beautiful for Maxim. He called her his littlekotyenok—his little kitten—because of her cat-like green eyes, her sleek dark hair, and her slender frame.
Little kittens could not be fat. They could not be miserable. They had to be adorable and playful, all the time.
So, Nadia tried to paste on a smile as the mourners lined up to pay their respects to her.
Woodenly, she shook their hands, kissed their cheeks, accepted their compliments to her mother.
It was only with Violet that she could give vent to her real feelings.
Violet didn’t kiss her cheek—she swept Nadia into a hug and she held her tight, so tight that Nadia could hardly breathe.
Nadia could feel the trembling of her cousin’s arms, hear the genuine sorrow in her voice.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Violet said.
Violet’s father Viktor had been killed that same night, right in front of her. Of all the people at the funeral, she was the one who truly understood how Nadia felt.
“Don’t be sorry,” Nadia told her, pulling back a little to look into Violet’s green eyes, the same color as her own. “You couldn’t help what happened. I’m just glad you’re alright.”
As she released Violet, she said, in Russian, “You know the old proverb? ‘Death is not like your brother—you can’t argue with him’.”
Violet gave a little choking laugh, her face still blotchy with tears.
“I’ll have to remember that one,” she said.
“Speaking of arguing with brothers,” Nadia said quietly, “how are things going with Roman?”
Violet and Roman had been thrown into leadership of the Turgenev empire with very little experience and a shaky relationship between the estranged siblings.
“It’s good,” Violet said. And then, with a little grimace, “Well, it’s better than I have a right to expect. I wasn’t going to say anything to you yet...I wanted to give you more time. But if you want to expand your role, if you want to drown yourself in work, so to speak...we’d be glad to have you in any capacity.”
Nadia sighed. She used to run Uncle Viktor’s boutique. She would have been so grateful for the offer a few months ago—a chance to take on more responsibility in the vast network of restaurants, hotels, nightclubs, and river cruises operated by the Turgenevs. Not to mention their less-legal operations.
But now she just wanted to get away from all of it.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said. “Sincerely. But I think I want to take a break for now. Maxim said we should go to Mykonos or Ibiza or something. I don’t care where it is, I just feel so smothered...and paranoid.” She dropped her voice still further, cognizant of all the people around them. “I don’t feel safe in my apartment, or at Maxim’s place, or at my mother’s house...I know it’s all supposed to be over, but how can we really know who was involved, who’s just keeping quiet now, who might be here right now, quietly happy that my mother’s in the ground?”
Nadia glanced around at the dozens of somber mourners. People she had known her entire life: uncles, aunts, and cousins.
Samara’s murder had been orchestrated by her own brother-in-law, Kostya Turgenev. Other close family had joined him, attacking Viktor and Samara in a room where they should have been completely safe. The attack had come out of nowhere, without warning. Like the assassination of Julius Caesar.
Kostya had ultimately been unsuccessful—Violet Turgenev had survived, and Kostya himself had been killed.
But it had shattered Nadia’s sense of safety. Her sense of trust in the family, the one institution they held sacred above church or country.
Violet held Nadia’s hand, looking pained and concerned.
“Do you want more bodyguards?” she said.
“No,” Nadia said, shaking her head. “I don’t want anybody following me around. I just want to get away.”
“Do it, then,” Violet encouraged her. “Take as long as you need.”
Violet could see the line of people still waiting to speak to Nadia. She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Call me,” she said, “if you need anything at all. If you need help at the house, or just...anything.”
“I will,” Nadia promised.
