Chapter 142 Nikolai
I walked toward the body slowly. My legs felt like lead. Each step was harder than the last. My men stayed back, gave me space for what was about to happen.
The body lay face down in the dirt. The black dress was torn and muddy. Dark hair spread across the ground. One arm was bent at an unnatural angle. The other was trapped beneath the body.
I fell to my knees beside it. My hands shook as I reached out and touched the shoulder. The fabric was cold, damp, rotting.
"Anya," I whispered. "Anya, please."
I turned the body over. My world ended.
It was her. Even with the decay. Even with the damage. Even with death written across every inch of her. It was Anya. My wife. My love. My reason for living.
Her eyes were closed. Her skin was gray. Her lips were blue. Bruises covered her neck and arms. Her feet were bare and bloody. She had died alone in the forest, wandering and suffering, while I had been burning cities and making deals with devils.
A sound came out of me. Not human. Not sane. A wail that tore through me like fire, like knives, like my soul being ripped out through my throat. I pulled her body into my arms and held her against my chest. I rocked back and forth and screamed until my throat was raw, until I tasted blood, until there was no sound left.
My men stood at a distance, silent and watching. None of them had ever seen me like this.
"Boss," one lieutenant finally said. His voice was quiet. "We need to take her. Bury her."
"No," I said. The word came out broken. "No burial."
"Boss..."
"I said no! No funeral. No goodbye. She is coming with me."
"Sir, the body has been here for days. We need to..."
"She is coming with me," I repeated. "Prepare the car. Now."
They did not argue. They prepared the car while I sat in the dirt holding Anya's body, whispering to her, apologizing, begging her to come back. They helped me carry her to the car and laid her gently in the back seat. I climbed in beside her and held her hand. It was cold and stiff but I did not care.
We drove back to Moscow in silence. I did not look away from her face. Did not let go of her hand. Did not allow myself to believe this was real.
At the estate, I carried her inside myself. Up the stairs. To the bedroom we had once shared. I laid her on the bed and arranged her arms. Smoothed her hair.
"Get me an embalmer. The best in Moscow."
"Boss, what are you doing?"
"She stays here. With me. Forever."
"Sir, bodies decompose. They..."
"Then preserve her. Do whatever it takes. But she is not leaving this house."
The embalmer came that night, a small man with nervous hands and frightened eyes. He worked through the night, draining her blood and injecting chemicals. When he finished, Anya looked almost alive. Almost peaceful. Like she was just sleeping.
I paid him double and told him never to speak of this. He nodded and left quickly. I dressed Anya in a white dress, brushed her hair, painted her lips. Made her look the way she had looked on our wedding day. Then I sat beside the bed and stayed.
Days passed. Then weeks. I did not leave the room. Did not eat unless someone forced me. Did not sleep except when exhaustion took me. I just sat and stared at Anya's body, talked to her, told her I was sorry, told her I loved her, told her I would give anything to bring her back.
My men began to worry. Viktor Sokolov came on the tenth day. "Markov, this has to stop."
"Get out."
"No. You are losing your mind. You cannot keep a corpse in your bedroom."
"I do not care about sane. She stays."
"She is dead, Nikolai. Dead. Keeping her body here will not change that."
"I know she is dead!" I stood up, fists clenched. "I know. I see it every day. Every hour. But if I let her go, if I bury her, then it is real. Then she is really gone. And I cannot... I cannot..."
My voice broke. I fell back into the chair. Viktor sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry. But this is not the way."
"There is no other way. This is all I have left."
He left. I went back to sitting. Back to staring. Back to talking to a corpse that could not hear me.
The embalmer returned on the thirtieth day. "Sir, the preservation is failing. The body is..."
"Just do it."
He worked again. But I could see it. The body was changing, decaying. No matter what he did, death was winning. Anya was slipping away, and there was nothing I could do.
On the fortieth day I finally broke. I stood up and walked to the bed. Looked down at what remained of my wife.
"I am sorry," I whispered. "I am sorry I could not save you. I am sorry for everything."
I kissed her forehead. Her skin was cold and waxy. "Goodbye, Anya. I will see you soon."
I left the room for the first time in forty days. My men looked up in shock. "Prepare a burial. Tomorrow. In the family cemetery. Make it beautiful."
I walked to my office, sat at my desk, and pulled out a bottle of vodka and a gun. I poured a drink. Drank it. Poured another. Tomorrow I would bury Anya. And the day after, I would follow her.
I raised the gun to my head. Felt the cold metal against my temple. My finger tightened on the trigger.
The door burst open. "Boss! You need to see this!"
I lowered the gun. "What?"
"It is about your wife. The body. It is gone."
I stood up and followed them back to the bedroom. My heart pounded. Had something gone wrong?
I entered the room and froze.
The bed was empty. Anya's body was gone.