It was raining heavily. Nadia Petrova stood at the edge of her husband's grave and felt nothing but the cold water soaking into her black dress. Fifty men were standing around her husband Ivan Petrova's grave, and not one of them was genuinely crying for him.
Beneath her veil, Nadia glanced to her left. Mikhail Sokolov, Ivan's drinking buddy, had tears in his eyes. But she knew he had always been more loyal to the bottle of vodka than to Ivan himself.
Pathetic and weak. Completely useless.
The priest kept speaking. She hardly heard him and didn't even bow her head, when everyone else did. Widows were supposed to weep, collapse and rely on the strong arms of men to keep them standing.
But Nadia stood perfectly fine as she watched the men while her husband's casket descended into the soil.
Viktor Konstantin was standing three places to her right, she could feel his cold and calculating eyes on her.
Yuri Federov, stood directly opposite to the grave, staring at the casket as if it might open suddenly. He looked nervous and pale. He had been skimming from Ivan's drug operations for eighteen months now.
Nadia had found the ledgers, copied them and locked them in a safe locker. Yuri was terrified that his theft would come to light now that Ivan was gone.
Afraid and guilty. Could be useful.
She smiled beneath the veil.
Then there were some who were watching her:
Anton, Dimitri, and Alexei. Their eyes kept drifting from the casket to her face, and she could read the question in their stares perfectly.
What does the widow know?
Everything, gentlemen.
She knew everything. She knew which of them had mistresses and which had gambling debts. She knew who had voted against Ivan in the last captains' meeting and who had stolen from the funds.
She had spent ten years living like a ghost in Ivan's world that none of them had noticed her listening at doors, taking photographs of documents, and memorizing conversations.
The prayer was about to end. Nadia looked at the casket, and a memory flashed before her eyes.
Ivan's hand was on her neck on their wedding night. She was just eighteen. His breath was hot and sour with vodka.
"You're mine now. Say it."
She had said it. Then he had squeezed her until her vision blurred, and she had understood that her parents had sold her to a monster.
The memory vanished, and she returned back to present.
Everyone present in the cemetery knew about their relationship but no one ever helped. Eventually, she learned to smile while bleeding, learned to cover her black eye with makeup, learned to stand beside Ivan at dinners with his arm around her waist and his fingers digging into the bruise on her hip hard enough to make her bite the her tongue, and yet smile. The other wives had looked at her with pity. The men hadn't looked at all.
For three years, she siphoned his money. Ivan's accountants were lazy, corrupt, and easy to fool. She opened accounts under false names and routed payments through shell companies.
Then she spent two years choosing the right men, the ones who hated Ivan. She never approached them directly but she left breadcrumbs, anonymous tips, and important documents. She let them think the coup was their idea.
Then she spent one year waiting for the right moment. And it came two nights ago. Ivan was drunk and distracted that he didn't notice his security team had only two men instead of six.
Damen Volkov, Ivan's own enforcer, pulled the trigger on his boss in a conference room, with a dozen witnesses saying it was necessary, saying Ivan was about to kill half the captains for suspected treason.
It was a perfect setup, and Nadia had designed it from the very beginning.
The priest finished. As Nadia was about to turn, she felt someone's eyes on her. She straightened herself, slowly raised her head and looked up.
Across the grave, Damen Volkov was staring at her. He was taller then she had expected, with broad shoulders and dark hair. He had sharp jawline and cheekbones. His hands were clasped in front of him. But it was his grey eyes that took her breath away.
He didn't look at her like a widow, didn't look at her like a woman who needed protection, and didn't look at her with pity, lust or dismissal. He looked at her the way she had been looking at all of them; like a puzzle to be solved.
Then looked at each other for exactly three seconds which felt like an eternity. She looked away first, not because she was weak or scared, but because she was smart.
You don't hold a predator's gaze unless you want it to attack.
The prayer was ending. Men began to walk away from the graveside, murmuring fake condolences and offering help she didn't need. Nadia accepted it all with graciously, playing the role of devastated widow perfectly.
"Mrs. Petrova." Viktor stepped closer, putting umbrella over her head. "The car is ready."
"Thank you, Viktor."
"If you need anything…"
"You're very kind." She cut him off politely. "I'll manage. Ivan left instructions for me."
Viktor's eyes narrowed slightly.
What instructions?
She turned from the grave, Viktor walked at her side, as they walked towards the waiting car. She kept her head high, not looking back.
Her driver, Anatoly, sixty years old, loyal to her because she had paid off his daughter's medical debts two years ago, opened the door for her. She pushed back her veil revealing her red lipstick underneath it.
As she was about to sit, she paused to turn and looked back. Damen Volkov hadn't moved. Everyone else was leaving or had already left.
But he was still standing there, completely soaked in the rain, watching her. And then he smiled.
It wasn't a warm or friendly smile. It was the smile one killer gave another in acknowledgement.
Nadia's heart began to beat faster but she calmed herself and got into the car. Anatoly closed the door and started the engine.
She leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes as the car drove away from the cemetery. After a few seconds, she smiled.
Damen Volkov, the man who had killed her husband, the man who now held the power, had just noticed her.
Perfect.