Page 18 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“I don’t want to adapt to circumstances that require me to compromise my values for political advantage.” I open the car door before he can respond. “Maybe some things shouldn’t be accepted.”
The cathedral’s interior takes my breath away despite my determination to remain unimpressed. Thousands of white roses create elaborate arrangements that transform the historic space into something from a magazine spread. The pews are filled with guests who represent the intersection of legitimate business and carefully concealed criminal enterprise, and the air is somber. It’s more like a funeral than a wedding.
What really gets my attention is the security presence. Men in expensive suits are positioned throughout the congregation in strategic placement, blending in for the most part but I know who they are and why they’re there. They watch the crowd with detached intensity that makes the entire ceremony feel like a potential crime scene.
“Miss Lo Duca?” One of the coordinators approaches with a clipboard and a harried expression. “We’re ready to begin the processional. Your father is waiting in the vestibule.”
Papa is in his perfectly tailored tuxedo that emphasizes his role as the proud father giving away his daughter to an advantageous marriage. He offers his arm with a smile that probably looks genuine to outside observers but feels performative to me. “Ready?” His question carries multiple layers of meaning beyond simple ceremony logistics.
I flash a brittle smile. “I can hardly wait. It feels like my own funeral.” I take his arm and prepare to walk down the aisle toward a future I never chose.
The cathedral doors open, and the wedding march begins with a grandeur that ensures everyone understands the political importance of this union. I walk forward with my head held high, forcing myself to project dignity despite the fury burning in my chest.
The congregation turns to watch my approach, and I recognize faces from Papa’s business meetings mixed with people I’ve never seen before. Politicians I know from newspaper photographs sit beside men whose appearances suggest they’re more comfortable with violence than diplomacy. This gathering represents the full spectrum of power in Chicago, legitimate and otherwise.
Then I see Tigran waiting at the altar, and my step falters slightly.
He wears a black tuxedo that emphasizes his height and broad shoulders, making him look like something from a Hollywood film about a spy, radiating sexiness and danger at the same time. His expression is unreadable as he watches my approach, but I catch something in his gray eyes that might be apprehension or regret.
The Orthodox priest conducting our ceremony looks nervous despite his obvious experience with important weddings. Father Dimitri has probably officiated dozens of ceremonies for prominent families, but something about today’s event clearly makes him uncomfortable. He keeps glancing toward the security guards with the expression of someone who suspects this blessing might require more divine intervention than usual.
When Papa and I reach the altar, he formally presents me to Tigran with words about family honor and mutual respect that sound rehearsed rather than heartfelt. Tigran accepts my hand with a grip that’s firm but careful, as if he’s handling something fragile that might break if mismanaged.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, for my ears alone.
“I look like a sacrifice being offered to secure a business deal.” I keep my voice low but let him hear the anger I’m not allowed to express publicly.
Acknowledgment flickers across his expression, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns toward Father Dimitri and nods for the ceremony to begin.
The Orthodox wedding ritual is more elaborate than I expected, with symbolic crowning, shared wine, and ceremonial dances around the altar that feel ancient and mystical. Under different circumstances, I might have found the traditions beautiful and meaningful. Today, they feel like chains being forged link by link.
When we reach the exchange of vows, Father Dimitri nods toward us with obvious nervousness. “The bride and groom have chosen to speak their own promises to each other.”
The personalized vows that Tigran agreed to during our wedding negotiations. I’d almost forgotten about that small victory in the midst of everything else and ended up writing them almost last-minute yesterday. Standing here in front of hundreds of witnesses, I have the opportunity to speak my truth instead of reciting traditional promises about obedience and submission.
I deliver my vows with the monotony of someone reading a contract aloud. “I promise to honor the agreement between our families and to fulfill my obligations as your wife. I promise to be a partner in building something worthy of the resources and opportunities we’ve inherited. I promise to speak honestly about my perspectives and to expect honesty in return.”
The words are brief and businesslike rather than romantic, which suits both our circumstances and my mood perfectly. I’m not promising to love, honor, and obey a man I barely know. I’m promising to uphold a business arrangement while maintaining my integrity and independence.
Tigran’s vows are similarly practical and restrained. “I promise to protect and provide for you as my wife and partner. I promise to build something lasting from the alliance our families have created. I promise to respect your intelligence and to include your voice in decisions that affect our shared future.”
His promises focus on partnership and mutual respect rather than traditional declarations of eternal devotion. We both understand what this marriage actually represents, and neither of us is interested in pretending otherwise for the sake of romantic theater. There’s a quiet murmur of surprise throughout our exchange, but he doesn’t turn to look at our guests, and neither do I.
Throughout the exchange, I let my defiance simmer just beneath the surface. I meet his gaze directly during my vows, delivering each word with sharp precision that makes clear I’m entering this marriage on my own terms rather than surrendering to his authority. Father Dimitri seems increasingly nervous as the ceremony progresses, clearly aware of the tension crackling between bride and groom.
When the priest finally reaches the moment everyone has been waiting for, his voice carries relief that suggests he’ll be glad when this ceremony concludes. “You may kiss the bride.”
Tigran steps closer and frames my face with hands that are steadier than mine. For a moment, we look at each other directly, two people who are about to be bound together by circumstances beyond their control.
Then I make my decision. Instead of the polite, appropriate kiss everyone expects, I surge forward and capture his mouth with all the fury and frustration I’ve been suppressing for weeks. I kiss him like I’m declaring war, marking territory, and proving that forced participation doesn’t mean passive compliance.
The kiss is hard, demanding, and completely inappropriate for a sacred ceremony. I feel Tigran’s surprise in the way his body goes still before he responds with unexpected intensity, tightening his hands on my face as if he’s accepting my challenge.
Gasps ripple through the congregation, followed by the kind of electric silence that suggests everyone understands they’ve witnessed something significant. When we finally break apart, I see shock and something that might be admiration in Tigran’s expression.
“Mrs. Belsky,” he says quietly, and there’s something almost like approval in his voice.
“Mr. Belsky,” I respond, letting him see exactly how I feel about becoming his wife.
