The chapel sank into a silence so complete I could hear the subtle scrape of Vanya’s sneakers on the marble floor, the whisper of his breath as he pressed closer into me, his small hand clutching mine with all the unspoken questions a child shouldn’t yet know.
Dmitri’s gaze did not soften.
Not for the bride. Not for the priest. Not even for me, sitting at the far back, invisible to the world but bleeding in every heartbeat.
His face was marble, carved and cold.
His jaw flexed once. Twice.
Then he opened his mouth, and the words that came out were deliberate—
“I... will.”
It left Dmitri’s lips and exploded inside my chest like a fragmentation grenade.
The cathedral blurred, the organ swelled into a distant, meaningless drone, and the murmurs of the congregation faded to nothing.
All I could hear was the wet, heavy thud of my own heart hammering against my ribs, threatening to break free.
My fingers curled into fists so tightly that blood welled hot and thick between them, dripping in slow, glistening beads onto the cold marble floor. I tried to hold it in, tried to steady myself, but the shock, the rage, the heartbreak—it was all too much.
“Mom?” Vanya’s small, trembling voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline in the storm. “Why doesn’t he look happy?”
I swallowed, my throat raw, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “Sometimes... my love, men do what they must, not what they feel.” A lie. A half-truth.
Vanya’s grip tightened, and he whispered against my shoulder, “Mom...You are bleeding.”
I looked down.
The blood had splattered across his navy shoes, tiny dots of scarlet standing out like cruel punctuation. I tried to smile—a grotesque, jagged attempt that felt more like a scream pressed into my lips.
“I’m okay, sweetheart,” I lied, voice breaking despite my effort.
“No, you’re not.”
He forced my fists open with surprising strength for his age, revealing the half-moon gouges etched into my skin.
Then, storm-grey eyes lifted to the altar. “That man... that’s my dad, isn’t it?”
The words cut through me like glass, flaying every layer of protection I’d built around my heart.
Tears came before I could stop them, scalding and relentless.
I yanked Vanya into my arms, pressing him close so he wouldn’t see me break apart.
My sobs were silent, violent tremors that shook my body, soaking his dark curls. I pressed a sleeve to my face, inhaling raggedly, trying to steady myself.
He didn’t flinch. His tiny hands gripped mine, steadying me in a way that made my chest ache, and his gaze bore into mine with terrifying, perfect understanding.
“He’s a bad man, right? He is the one who made you cry?” Vanya’s voice trembled but carried a clarity, a raw, five-year-old fury that mirrored my own. “He broke your heart... and now he’s marrying another lady?”
I almost laughed through the pain, a bitter, jagged sound that had no humor in it. My son looked ready to leap up the aisle and punch a mafia boss in the knee.
I cupped his face gently, thumb brushing over the sharp little cheekbone—the same cheekbone that mirrored Dmitri’s. “Yes, baby. That’s your father. And no, he... he isn’t a bad man. He’s just... not ours. Not anymore. But that’s okay. We’ll go home to Greece tomorrow. Just you and me. Like always.”
I smoothed a hand through his dark hair, swallowing shards.
Vanya’s lower lip quivered, his small fists balled tight, knuckles whitening. His little body trembled with a storm of outrage and sorrow, pure Volkov fury confined to a five-year-old frame.
