When I finally reach the altar, Pyotr takes my hand and places it in Ivan's.
The touch is electric—sharp and grounding all at once. His palm is warm, steady, like he's silently telling meyou made it.
His thumb drags over my knuckles once. Twice.
Checking to see if I'm real, or maybe reminding himself he is.
Pyotr says something in Russian—formal, rhythmic. Ivananswers, low and certain. They share the smallest smile, a private moment I’m not a part of yet.
Then Pyotr steps back, and Ivan pulls me closer. Not too close—we're in a church after all. But close enough that I feel his warmth and see the gold flecks in his eyes that only appear in certain light.
The ceremony begins.
The priest's voice is deep. Resonant. Echoing off marble and gold. Speaking Russian.
Of course, it's in Russian. This is an Orthodox church. This is a Bratva wedding. Everything is in Russian.
I've been taking lessons. Ivan insisted. Said I needed to understand my new world. My new family. My new life.
But my Russian is terrible. I catch maybe one word in ten on a good day. Today's not a good day. My brain is too scattered. Too overwhelmed.
But I hear some words. The important ones.
Forever. Unity. Together. Death before separation.
The priest continues. Ivan's thumb keeps tracing circles on my hand. Grounding me. Reminding me he's here. That this is real.
I try to focus. Try to understand. Catch phrases here and there. God. Commitment. Something about?—
The priest asks a question in a different tone. I don't understand the words, but I know what it means. There’s only one question you ask the audience at a wedding.
Does anyone object?
My heart stops. This is the moment. The one from the movies. Where everything goes wrong. Where someone stands up and?—
Ivan's hand moves. A subtle shift toward his hip, where his gun is.
Only in a Bratva wedding would the groom be armed at the altar.
I glance at the crowd. All those faces. All those people who wanted Ivan to marry someone else. Someone appropriate. Someone from their families.
Ivan whispers something. Russian. Just for me.
I don't hear all of it, but I catch the important part. "Look at me."
I meet his eyes.
Nobody speaks. The church stays silent.
Then the priest smiles and switches to English, probably for my benefit. "You may now kiss the bride."
Ivan doesn't do a gentle church kiss. Not the sweet, chaste thing you're supposed to do at the altar. He cups my face with both hands and pulls me against him. He kisses me deeply. Possessively. His tongue invades my mouth. His body presses to mine. Completely inappropriate for this setting.
He’s making a statement, ensuring everyone watching knows what I am to him.
Some gasp. Scandalized probably. But I don't care.
When he pulls back, his lips brush my ear.
