My chest does a thing it hasn’t done since I was young and allowed myself certain fantasies. I’m being ridiculous, and I know it, but somehow, I cannot stop the electric thrill I get when she walks toward me. I can count the guards and the exits and still let my heart beat too fast because my bride is here and I want her to reach me soon.
I sound like a hormone-riddled teenager in my head, and yet, I cannot slow my heart down.
She stops at my side, and all I want to do is stare at her. But we face the man who will say the words to make today complete. I take her hand. It is warm. It doesn’t shake. I allow myself to look at her for a breath longer than is polite.
I am not polite today. I don’t have to be.
The official says a few sentences about intention and law and the meaning of love. I’ve heard these words for other men and watched them nod like they were performing. Half of those men had their dicks in other women before their honeymoon. That will not be me.
Our marriage might be a sham, but I take my vows seriously.
The rings come from a tray. I slide one onto her finger. It sits there like it belongs. She slides mine on and looks up into my face while she does it.
The kiss is brief by necessity. It is not performative. It is not hungry. It seals the vows. A handful of claps begin and swell because people want to be part of our big day.
It’s almost the wedding I once imagined when I allowed myself the stupidity of believing life could be good. When I was young I thought a wedding meant the rest would be easy. That a wedding portrait means the people in it were happy forever, and nothing bad ever happened to them. That’s how all the movies end, isn’t it? With a big wedding, and the happy couple departs while people clap.
Real life, in my experience, is rarely like the movies. I knew better than that—I had grown up under my parents’ marriage, and yet I allowed myself the fantasy of a Hollywood ending. Being a romantic is the perfect way to set yourself up for failure.
My first wedding portrait lives in an old photo album, warped and worn at the corners. Everything bad that can happen happened to the people in that picture. I refuse to let that be the story of my second wedding portrait.
We walk into the house, while the guests wait outside. Her ring catches the light. She smiles, but it is not a smile for others. It isfor me only. An acknowledgment that we did the hard part. I feel something like relief move across my shoulders and settle.
“Are you all right?” I ask, low, for her and no one else.
“Yes,” she says. “Are you?”
“More than I expected to be.” I still feel the small tremor of that first sight of her at the door. Good. It reminds me I have something to lose. Men who forget that think they are gods and die like animals.
We enter the ballroom and take our places at the head table. “My father hated this room. Said it was too formal. But my mother loved it. She’s responsible for the décor.”
“She had good taste. Very classic,” Mina notes.
“Good taste in décor. Not in men.”
She smirks at that, but says nothing.
Our guests enter the ballroom. I can tell who wants to break protocol and speak with me. But they find their tables or the bar, knowing now is not the time. I am certain many of them want to ask about my eldest. Even now, it’s strange to think of marrying without Vitaly here. Psychotic or not, disinherited or not, he’s still my son.
The day is not done. We have to be seen, again and again, until the room is satisfied. We have to survive the toast a rival’s wife will try to give even though no one asked her to speak. We have to say good night to the handful who matter and send the rest home with full stomachs and full mouths.
But the ceremony is over. He didn’t come. No shots. No sprinting. No blood on white cloth. I let myself be grateful. I holdthe feeling in place and promise myself not to mistake luck for strategy.
Now to survive the reception.
11
MINA
The reception is festive.Warm lights. Loud laughter. Every table has its own orbit. Glasses clink and people expect me to remember ten names a minute and a story for each one. I keep my smile steady and try to keep up, but the walls are closing in. The band plays a song I know and then something I don’t. Cameras hover and retreat.
Roman’s compound is built to impress. Tonight it does more. It contains us. I feel the perimeter in the way the room breathes. His security is everywhere, both men and women in dark suits with bulges beneath the jacket. They drift, all eyes, no smiles. Some guests brought their own men. The air has a hum under the music. It says behave.
I do my part. I shake hands. I accept blessings from grandmothers. I nod through a story about a fishing trip that ended in a storm. My cheeks ache by the time we reach the third cluster of laughing drunk people. The ringing in my ears won’t die down.
Then Fyodor arrives at my shoulder, takes one small step forward and the knot of people in front of us loosens withoutknowing why. “This is Mrs. Malinova,” he says, low enough that only I hear it. “She remembers faces. Say her name twice.”
I do, and her eyes brighten. We move two steps.
