THE GATEKEEPER

It makes me even more determined to come to her aid.

"Come. Let's go." I pick up her woolen coat and hold it out for her to slide her arms in.

It's a gentlemanly action, and I'm no gentleman. I don't even know how this instinct in me arose, yet it feels so natural to honor her this way.

She slides her arms in the sleeves and knots the tie around her waist. I put on a black leather jacket and take her hand in mine to lead her to the elevators.

We take it down to the parking garage, Kira nervously fiddling with the handrail in the elevator as we ride. I lead her to my Ford Bronco and open the passenger side door for her.

Outside, snow has begun to fall in thick, wet flakes that melt when they hit the windshield. The streets are a mess, but I navigate through them, familiar with downtown and the best routes to take. "Why are you doing this for me?" she cuts through the silence.

I shrug. "I know what it's like to be alone in a strange place."

She gives me a sidelong glance. "You came here alone?"

"Yes, but that wasn't it. Coming here wasn't so hard. Not even learning a new language."

"When, then?"

I don't know what makes me say it. I have this urge to show her that I understand the misery her sister endured, I guess. Even if I didn't suffer like her.

"When I joined the brotherhood. It was...supposed to set me free. But it only further enslaved me to a life of violence."

Now I have her full attention. "Why did you join?"

I shrug. "I was young. My mother abandoned me. Left with me with my abusive father. The bratva put a gun in my hand and told me I could free myself."

Kira's head bows and her gaze drops to her hands. "A common story, I'm sure. The promise of a better life. Power and money and freedom from abuse." She looks over again. "Were you free from abuse?"

I snort. My body is covered in scars from the violence doled out by my brothers and enemies of the brotherhood, alike.

She looks back through the snowy windshield. "Of course not."

We arrive at the funeral home, and I park the Bronco. Kira hops out, and we walk in.

"Ms. Koslova?" The woman at the front desk greets us when we walk in.

Kira looks surprised. "Yes."

"Follow me," the receptionist says, ushering us down a hallway. "The director will be right in to go over the arrangements with you."

She leaves us alone in a room with a large table in the center and backlit glass shelves along two walls displaying all the various options for the dead.

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Kira's upper lip curls in distaste as she walks around, looking at the presentation. "You can make gemstones out of a person's ashes? Ew."

"Kira, don't choose based on cost. I'm going to cover the expenses."

"Why?" She almost sounds angry.

"Because I want to. The bratva ruined her life. Paying for her funeral seems like the least we can do."

"Did..." she works to swallow. "Did you know her, Maykl?"

"I knew many women like her," I say in a tired voice.

She nods and turns away, blinking back tears as she picks up a book showing the various casket options and flips through it.

"Do you want to bury her here?" I ask. When she gives me a blank look, I clarify. "In America?"

"Oh." It's like she hadn't considered what a burial would mean. "No." She shakes her head, agitation making her shoulders creep up toward her ears.

"You want the body transported home?"

"No." She appears sickened by the idea. "I guess I want...her ashes."

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"So thinking of cremation?" The funeral director enters the room. She's a young woman in a staid, navy-blue suit with an appropriately somber expression. "Yes."

"Have a seat. I can go over the options and fill out the necessary paperwork."

Ninety minutes later, the arrangements are made. Despite my offer to cover any expense, Kira went with the most basic options. The hundred-dollar cardboard container for the ashes. No service. No remembrances. The entire cost was twelve hundred dollars, which I paid for in cash. Plus another five thousand to get it turned around by tomorrow instead of the two weeks she originally quoted us.

I didn't pay out of guilt. It's not that I feel directly responsible in any way for the woman's demise. But I make good money working for Ravil. I have a very large nest egg. The money is nothing to me, and if I can help Kira move through her grief with more ease, I want to do it.

Especially when Kira gives me a soft "thank you, Maykl" when we get in the car.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. When she looks over at me with those ice-blue eyes, there's a vulnerability behind them that makes my chest squeeze. Gone is the warrior, and the woman in her place looks lost.

Kira

It takes me most of the afternoon to recover my footing from the outing to the funeral home. My grief has always been coated in anger. It fuels my strength. Made me join the politsiya. Not that I had delusions the police would fix the crime and corruption in my city. I just didn't want to feel weak. I wanted to be able to handle myself. To carry a weapon and wield a little more power than the average citizen.

Something about having Maykl's solid form beside me, feeling like someone had my back for the first time in so many years, made the grief feel more like...grief. Something painful and sticky I couldn't shake.

Maykl took me to lunch after the funeral home then back to the building. His pakhan wasn't available to see me today, so he left me in his apartment while he went back to work an evening shift.