A breath. Softer now. "And that's worth more than any tradition."
He lifts the glass higher. "To the future."
Everyone drinks. They have to.
And as I glance around, I catch a few of the older wives watching me, not with spite, but with a hint of understanding. Assessment. Maybe even respect. Because in this world, surviving is the only language they trust, and I've survived everything
My brain starts spinning again, cycling through everything I need to learn. Everything I need to do. Appearances. Russian. Managing staff. Hosting events. There was something else I was supposed to remember and?—
Ivan stands and takes my hand. "Come with me."
"What? Now?"
"Now." He’s already pulling me up.
"But the reception—people will notice?—"
"Let them notice." He's leading me through tables, past guests who are too drunk or too polite to comment. Toward the exit. Through bushes.
There's a car waiting. A black limo. Windows tinted dark enough to be illegal.
"You had a getaway car at our wedding?"
"Always have an exit strategy." He opens the door and gestures. "In."
"What about the guests? The speeches? Your captains will?—"
He lifts me and sets me inside the limo like I weigh nothing. "I’m tired of all that formality. If I have to shake one more hand instead of touching you, someone's getting shot."
I'm laughing despite myself. "And this is your idea of subtle? A whole limo?"
"Nobody's looking." He climbs in after me and closes the door. The sound of it shutting feels final. Private. "And even if they were, I don't care."
The interior is ridiculous. Leather everything. Mini bar stocked with top-shelf bottles. Too much space for two people.
He sits me down on the seat and kneels in front of me, reaching for my feet.
"What are you doing?"
He removes one heel, then the other. The relief is immediate. "Saving you from yourself. You've been wincing for an hour."
"I wasn't wincing?—"
"You were." His hands move up my calves, massaging slightly. "You think I don't notice everything about you?"
"I thought the Pakhan cared about appearances."
"The Pakhan can do whatever the fuck he wants at his own wedding." His hands slide higher. "If he wants to leave his own reception to fuck his wife, he will. They'll survive without us."
"But—"
"You know what you looked like walking down that aisle?"
"Like a bride?"
"Like everything I never let myself want." His hands find the laces on my dress and start working them loose. "Thought I was going to lose it right there in front of everyone."
"That's not very Pakhan-like?—"
