1
ALINA
The white lace of my wedding dress scratches against my skin like a thousand tiny accusations. I stand at the altar of this ornate Russian Orthodox church, surrounded by icons of saints whose painted eyes seem to judge me, and I can barely breathe.
This isn't how I imagined my wedding day.
The dress is beautiful. I'll give my mother that much. Ivory silk and French lace, with a cathedral train that pools behind me like spilled cream. The bodice is encrusted with pearls and crystals that catch the light from the chandeliers overhead, making me sparkle like some kind of sacrificial offering. Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.
I've met Sergei Morozov exactly three times.
The first time was at a restaurant, with both our families present. He barely looked at me, spending most of the dinner discussing business with my father. The second time was at an engagement party I didn't want, where he kissed my hand and told me I was pretty. The third time was last week, for a final fitting of mydress, and he showed up drunk, reeking of vodka and perfume that wasn't mine.
And now I'm supposed to promise to love, honor, and obey him for the rest of my life.
The church is packed. Every pew is filled with men in expensive suits, their faces hard and their eyes harder. I recognize most of them, various Bratva families, allies, and rivals forced to play nice for the sake of this alliance. My father's idea of diplomacy—marry off his eldest daughter to secure a partnership with the Morozov family.
Armed guards line the walls. Not subtle security, but obvious muscle—men with bulges under their jackets that everyone pretends not to notice. This is a Bratva wedding, after all. Violence is always just beneath the surface, waiting.
I catch my father's eye from the front pew. Viktor Popov sits with his shoulders back and his chin high, looking satisfied with himself. Next to him, my mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, playing the role of emotional mother of the bride. It's a performance. She's always been good at those.
My little sister Katya sits on my mother's other side, and when our eyes meet, I see the truth there—sympathy, fear, and relief that it's me standing here and not her. She's only sixteen. In a few years, she'll probably be in my position, sold off to whatever man my father thinks will benefit him most.
Unless I can find a way to protect her.
Sergei stands beside me at the altar, and I force myself to look at him. He's handsome enough, I suppose—dark hair slicked back, a strong jaw, expensive cologne that doesn't quite mask thesmell of cigarettes. He's thirty-five, thirteen years older than me, and there's something cold in his eyes that makes my skin crawl.
But it's not Sergei who makes my skin prickle with awareness.
It's the man standing behind him.
Dimitri Morozov. Sergei's uncle, though he doesn't look old enough for the title. He's the best man, standing tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit. At forty-two, he's the real power in the Morozov family—thePakhan, the boss. Sergei might be the groom, but Dimitri is the one everyone fears.
I've heard the stories. Everyone has. Dimitri Morozov is ruthless, calculating, and absolutely merciless with his enemies. He's built an empire on blood and fear, and he's survived challenges that would have killed lesser men.
And right now, his green eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
I tell myself it's just my imagination. He's probably bored, or thinking about business, or wondering when this ceremony will be over so he can get back to whatever it is that men like him do. But every time I glance in his direction, those eyes are still on me, tracking my every movement like a predator watching prey.
The priest begins the ceremony in Russian, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The words wash over me, familiar from a lifetime of attending church with my family, but they feel distant, like they're happening to someone else.
I'm supposed to say "I do" when prompted. I'm supposed to smile and accept the ring and kiss my new husband and walk back down that aisle as Mrs. Sergei Morozov. I'm supposed to go to the reception, dance the first dance, cut the cake, and thendisappear into a honeymoon suite where Sergei will claim his husbandly rights.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
The priest asks Sergei if he takes me as his wife. Sergei's response is confident, almost bored. "I do."
Now it's my turn. The priest looks at me expectantly, and I open my mouth to speak the words that will seal my fate.
That's when the first window shatters.
The sound is deafening as glass explodes inward in a shower of colored fragments. The beautiful stained glass window depicting the Virgin Mary disintegrates, and something small and dark flies through the opening.
For a split second, everything freezes. My brain can't process what's happening. Then I see the muzzle flash from outside, and instinct takes over.
I drop to the floor, my wedding dress tangling around my legs. Around me, chaos erupts. Gunfire—so much gunfire—echoes through the church. People are screaming, diving for cover, scrambling over pews. The armed guards along the walls draw their weapons and return fire, but they're shooting at shadows, at threats they can't see.
More windows shatter. I cover my head with my arms as glass rains down on me, sharp edges catching in my hair and dress. Someone is shouting orders in Russian, but I can't make out the words over the screaming and the gunfire.
