Page 150 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

* * *

Here we are.

This is the moment. The one little girls reenact with Barbies, that Hollywood scripts work whole movies around, that women young and old plan and giggle about over champagne.

This is the moment that two separate lives fuse into one.

We’re barefoot in Gavril’s yard, how I requested. The air is tinged with the scent of cypress. Somewhere unseen, sparrows argue over sparrow problems.

In the crowd, I can see Mom, pretty in a pale green dress beside Albert, hands entwined. I can see Chowder, in Walter’s firm hold. I can see Mario just about bouncing in his seat. I can see Wanda, closer to the back, her neon green and pink tutu taking up two seats.

I can see the priest beside us, the one I’d almost forgotten, as he drones tired old words that don’t do any justice to what is new and wild between us.

I smile at my husband-to-be and he smiles back.

The look in Gavril’s dark eyes, the love there, defies expression. It is evident with just a glimpse.

It is the kind of love they write stories about.

And then Gavril opens that felt box, and suddenly, everything gets crystallized.

Whoa.

I gape at him. “How …”

He just smiles. “Does it matter?”

But it does, of course it does. Because right there, untenably, impossibly, right freaking there, is the ring. My ring. Gavril’s ring. The one I threw away.

“Gavril …” I murmur.

“Is now really the time?”

I have to stop myself from laughing aloud. Instead, I just shake my head.

“Good,” he says simply, “I love you.”

And then he slips on the ring.

Amidst the cheers, and the priest saying, “You may now kiss the bride,” and Gavril kissing me, something occurs to me.

I feel no different. Nothing slides into place. Nothing unseen lifts off me, nor does any invisible knowing settle.

I am the same woman.

A ring doesn’t change that. Even a husband—a real one this time—doesn’t change that.

As we break free of our kiss and make for our friends, I smile. Because I know now: I have earned this Joy Vaknin, every piece of her. And of that, I’m damn proud.

* * *

The rest of the wedding is a blur. Talking and dancing and chatting. Not eating. There’s too many people to be congratulated by. Too many things to oversee.

At some point, Gavril pulls me aside. “What would you say to a burger?”

I glance at the sweaty-faced cook toiling away at the open-air grill. “He looks pretty busy. You think he’d go for a custom order?”

“Not him.” Gavril’s gaze has already moved on, back towards the house. “I have somewhere else in mind.”

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