Page 28 of Bratva Bride
"I'll see you at the altar," he said, his hand on the doorknob. Then, over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought: "And Anya? I love you, detka. This is all for your own good. You'll thank me someday."
The door closed behind him with that same soft click.
My hands shook as I moved to the bathroom, found tissues, dabbed at my face. The stranger in the mirror looked back at me with red-rimmed eyes and smudged mascara. I fixed it mechanically. Foundation to hide the finger marks on my chin. Powder to cover the tear tracks. Fresh mascara to replace what had run.
The bride in the mirror smiled. Practiced. Perfect. Empty.
Goldeverywhere.Iconscatchingcandlelight and throwing it back like captured stars. Incense so thick I could taste it on my tongue—myrrh and frankincense so intense they made my head swim. The Orthodox church was beautiful in the way museums were beautiful. Meant to be looked at, not touched. Holy in a way that had nothing to do with God and everything to do with power.
I stood at the back of the church with my father's hand clamped around my elbow. Claiming me one last time before the transfer was complete.
The church was packed. I counted bodies automatically—one hundred and forty-three people witnessing this transaction. Volkovs on the left side, seventy-one of them filling the pews in expensive suits that couldn't quite hide the weapons underneath. Morozovs on the right, seventy-two including my father and me. The division was absolute. A line drawn down the center aisle that might as well have been a border between countries.
Everyone was armed. I could see it in the way they sat—too careful, too aware of the bulges under their jackets. Holy ground meant nothing when you were negotiating peace between criminal organizations. The guns were insurance. Mutually assured destruction dressed up in three-piece suits.
The organist began. Some traditional Russian hymn that probably meant something to someone. To me it was just noise. Just the signal that my execution was beginning.
"Smile," my father murmured, his grip tightening on my elbow. "You're a bride, not a prisoner."
I smiled. Let it reach my eyes the way I'd practiced. The stranger in the mirror from the bridal suite had followed me here, wearing my skin, performing my life.
We started walking. I counted steps to keep from running. One. Two. Three. The ivory silk whispered against my legs with each movement. Four. Five. Six. Faces turned to watch us pass. Seven. Eight. Nine. Alexei Volkov in the front pew with his woman beside him. Her names was Clara, Ivan had said, and she was pretty—her forest-green dress a splash of color against the sea of black suits. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Dmitry on the other side of the aisle, his scarred face impassive, His own woman—Eva—tucked against his side in lavender.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
Ivan waited at the altar in a black suit that made him look like he was attending a funeral instead of a wedding. Maybe he was. Maybe we both were. Burying whoever we'd been before this treaty required us to become husband and wife.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
His gray eyes found mine across the remaining distance, and something passed between us. Recognition, maybe. Or shared understanding that we were both trapped in this performance. That neither of us had chosen this but we'd survive it anyway because survival was what we did.
Nineteen.
My father released my elbow, placed my hand in Ivan's with ceremonial precision. "Take care of her," he said, loud enough for the front rows to hear. Playing the devoted father. "She's precious to me."
Liar. But Ivan nodded solemnly, accepted the fiction, closed his fingers around mine with surprising gentleness.
Then my father stepped back, and I was alone with Ivan at an altar covered in gold and white roses.
The priest began in Church Slavonic. Old Russian. The language of tsars and Orthodox tradition. My mind translated automatically—"Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit"—but the words flowed over me like water. Meaningless. Just sounds.
"Anya," Ivan whispered. Just my name. Quiet enough that only I could hear.
I focused on him. On the present.
The priest was asking questions. Whether we came to this marriage freely. Whether we would honor each other. Whether we understood the sanctity of the bonds we were forming. Ivan answered in Russian, his voice steady and clear. I heard myselfanswer too, the stranger wearing my skin performing her lines perfectly.
Then the priest produced a silk cord. White, embroidered with gold thread. Beautiful.
He bound our hands together—Ivan's right to my left—wrapping the cord around our wrists three times. Each loop felt like a chain. Each knot felt permanent.
"Symbolizing your unity," the priest intoned. "What God has joined, let no man separate."
God hadn't joined us. A treaty had. But the distinction didn't matter to the silk cord tightening around my wrist.
My breathing accelerated. The incense was too thick. The gold was too bright. Everything was too much.
The priest continued speaking. More Church Slavonic flowing over me. The church spun slightly. Or maybe I was swaying. Hard to tell when the ground felt like it might open up and swallow me whole.
