His grin returns, sharp and wild and utterly unrepentant. "No bridesmaids to flirt with, so I came to see you instead." He leans against the doorframe with easy confidence, studying me with focus that makes my pulse kick. "Speaking of which, who did you celebrate with at your bachelorette party if there are no bridesmaids?"
"As you know perfectly well, this isn't a real marriage." I keep my voice cool, detached, the performance I've perfected. "I'm saving the bridesmaids for the real deal. There was no bachelorette party."
The lie comes easily. The truth is harder: I've isolated myself so completely that I don't have friends I could ask. And the people I do consider friends are better off not attending a wedding that binds me to the Severyn Bratva.
"No party?" Alexei shakes his head, genuinely disappointed. "You'll get along great with Maksim, then. He's a bore who didn't want a bachelor party either."
Warmth blooms in my chest. Unwelcome, inappropriate, dangerous. Maksim didn't celebrate. Didn't want to. I can't examine why that pleases me, so I push it down and focus on Alexei instead.
"What are you really doing here?" I ask again.
His expression shifts. The wild humor fades into something more serious, more honest. "Your father had an unfortunate accident this morning. Playing golf. " He pauses, lets that sink in. "He's wearing a brace now. Won't be able to walk you down the aisle." He winks. Actually winks.
The pieces click into place.
They did this. They made sure my father couldn't give me away because I asked not to be given away by him.
Someone listened. Someone cared enough to act.
I don't know what to do with that information. Don't know how to process being heard, being believed, being protected.
Alexei's voice gentles, loses its sharp edge. "I know you can walk down that aisle by yourself,kotyonok. " He extends his arm, offering. "But nothing would give me greater honor than to lead you to my brother. Your choice."
I stare at his offered arm. At this wild, dangerous man looking at me with something that feels dangerously close to genuine affection.
The truth is, I think I could use Alexei's support. I think walking alone might crack something inside me I'm not ready to examine.
"I accept," I say finally, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow.
His grin returns, brilliant and boyish. "Let's go get you married,solnyshko."
The string quartet launches into the processional as we step into the hallway. My pulse accelerates, adrenaline flooding my system. Alexei keeps up a steady stream of whispered commentary as we walk. Observations about the flowers ("excessive"), jokes about the venue ("pretentious"), anything to distract me from the weight of what I'm about to do.
"Third row, left side," he murmurs as we approach the ceremony space. "Senator Anderson. Heard he's been laundering money through his wife's art gallery. We should compare notes."
I nearly laugh despite myself.
He keeps going, pointing out politicians, business owners, society matrons, weaving a narrative of Chicago's elite that's equal parts amusing and accurate.
I'm grateful for it. Grateful for him.
The ceremony space opens before us, and the air leaves my lungs.
The Adler Planetarium's grand hall has been transformed into something out of a dream. The domed ceiling arcs overhead, massive and impossible, glass panels refracting golden light into fragments that dance across white marble floors. Thespace echoes with barely contained sound of fabric rustling, people breathing, the string quartet playing something achingly beautiful. Chairs arranged in neat rows face an altar backed by floor-to-ceiling windows that frame Lake Michigan stretching to the horizon. White roses and greenery line the aisle, and everywhere I look, there's light golden, warm, making everything feel suspended between reality and fantasy.
One hundred and twenty faces turn to watch me enter.
The weight of their attention presses against my skin like hands.
I lift my eyes and see them at the end of the aisle.
Maksim. Zakhar. Both in dark suits that make power look inevitable and menace look elegant.
Maksim stands at the altar, hands clasped in front of him, blonde hair catching the light like fire. Even from this distance, I can see the intensity in those ice-blue eyes, the controlled stillness that defines him. He looks every inch the Pakhan. Authority wrapped in civility, violence dressed in silk.
Beside him, Zakhar watches with that same focused attention I remember from the restaurant. Taller, broader, built like consequences given human form. His green eyes track my movement with predator patience, steady, absolute, missing nothing.
They're both impossibly attractive. Both utterly terrifying.
