Page 17 of Savage Vows
Everything gleams. The marble floors, the vaulted ceiling, the long rows of pews that echo every footstep with ceremonial judgment. Gold trim flashes in the corners of the room. Candles burn in tall sconces. The air smells like incense and old wood.
But there’s no warmth here. No spirit. Only spectacle.
Liam whistles low under his breath as we walk in. “They went all out.”
I don’t answer. I’m already scanning the room.
Security’s tight. Our men are posted by the doors, in the choir loft, outside the sacristy. Everyone’s in position. Everyone but her.
Then I see him.
Our father.
He always swore he’d never use the damn thing. Said it made him look weak. But here he is, draped in a dark overcoat, legs covered, one gloved hand resting loosely on the chair’s armrest.
He doesn’t smile when he sees us. Just lifts his hand, the gesture clipped and impatient.
“Son,” he says, his voice low and dry. “There’s a change of plans.”
I stop two steps short.
Liam hangs back, silent for once. Even he feels the shift in the air.
I don’t look at the pews yet. I wait.
“What kind of change?”
Instead of answering, my father lifts a hand and gestures slightly to the right.
That’s when I turn and see the Petrovs.
They’re seated in the front pew, earlier than expected. Too quiet. Too still.
Roman Petrov, the patriarch, usually walks into any room like it belongs to him. Now he sits with his hands clasped tight around his cane, eyes fixed ahead like he’s trying not to be seen. His wifesits stiffly beside him, lips pressed thin. They look like they’ve already lost something and are waiting for us to figure out what it was.
I glance back at my father.
He doesn’t need to explain further.
Something happened. The Petrovs aren’t gloating. They’re bracing. And that makes me wonder who exactly this change of plans was meant to punish.
My father watches my expression. Waiting. I keep my face still. Flat. But a weight settles in my chest.
“What changed?” I ask again.
This time, his voice is quieter. Almost bored. “She’s not coming down the aisle.”
“What?” Liam says, stepping forward.
I keep my eyes on our father, watching him the way I would watch an unpredictable fuse—silent, patient, calculating the moment it might blow.
But he doesn’t explode. He doesn’t explain. He simply says, “Yes. But a wedding will still happen today.”
Liam glances at me, then back at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
Our father doesn’t look at me as he speaks, voice flat and businesslike. “I promised you a Petrova bride. That’s what you’ll get today.”
I keep my tone even. “Who?”
