Page 45 of Dark King Daddy

“Thank you.”

She squeezed hard, then let go.

Sal inclined his head. “Ksenia.”

There was steadiness in him. Not distance. The kind of quiet that made room instead of filling it.

He moved on with Yelena.

Daniil remained near Anton among the principal mourners.

I returned to the receiving line.

The service began.

Oh god, the grief. The pain.

The next morning, I put on black again.

My father had been in the ground for less than twenty-four hours. Lev Sokolov waited for his turn.

The Church of the Holy Protection stood on Brighton Fourth Street beneath a sky the color of dirty snow. The rain had stopped, but the wind off the water cut through my coat as Anton, Uncle Kostya, and I approached the entrance.

Orlov men followed at a respectful distance.

Not security, officially.

Everyone at the church knew better.

The Sokolovs had attended Papa’s funeral in full strength. We did the same. Public grief had rules. Political grief had more.

Inside, the church glowed with candlelight. Incense hung beneath the icons. The nave was already crowded.

Lev had ruled for a long time.

Men had come from Brooklyn, Queens, New Jersey, and farther. Captains. Business owners. Community leaders. Old Russians who remembered him before Sokolov House. Younger men who had known no other Pakhan.

At the front stood Daniil.

It was his turn to receive every one of them.

He wore a black suit and a narrow black tie. His face looked carved into calm. He listened to condolences. He accepted hands. He inclined his head at the proper moments.

No one embraced him unless he moved first. Most did not try.

They approached him as mourners and left having acknowledged a ruler.

Already, he stood where Lev had stood.

Anton stopped beside me just inside the entrance.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

It was the first honest answer I had given him in days.

His mouth tightened.