The air at the harbor cemetery tastes of salt and frozen earth. Sleet-gray light catches the silver handle of Elias’s casket, a final gleaming insult to a marriage built on a lie. Sofia stands at the edge of the open pit, her chin level, her black wool coat buttoned to the throat against the biting wind. The white lily in her hand feels like a lead weight. Behind her, the Vasin family looms like a wall of dark iron.
Anton steps forward, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that barely carries over the crashing surf. He does not offer condolences. Instead, he leans close enough for her to smell the bitter tobacco on his breath. 'Twelve million dollars, Sofia. Your husband was a thief, and the books do not balance themselves.'
Twelve million. The number is a cage. Elias was a shipping clerk, or so he said, but the cold stillness of the men surrounding her suggests otherwise. She does not flinch. She does not look down. Her eyes remain fixed on the dark wood of the coffin as the reality of the trap settles into her bones.
A pair of heavy black boots crunches the frozen grass toward the grave.
