"Wait! When did you get hurt?" I reach for his arm, and he covers the mark.
"It isn't important."
"It is to me as your personal P.A.," I smile, trying to take his hand.
Dmitri removes his cufflink and pulls his jacket and sleeve up a couple of inches. It's three more marks, red and sore, that extend the pattern of the blue tattoo running up his arm. It's beautiful work, looking like a line of music or an ocean wave.
"I didn't realize…" I stare at the three marks, connecting to the rest, the elegant ink flows from his wrist past his elbow. That's the arm he curls over me at night. I've traced the line a dozen times when I couldn't sleep. "These are people in your organization who have fallen?"
"Yes," he says, putting the cufflink back in. He won't look at me, fussing with the sleeve of his jacket. "Those I'd assigned to a duty. Women and men I’m responsible for."
"Do you get these marks to honor them or punish yourself?" I ask, thinking about our conversation the night before, where he said he would wish to not have to be responsible.
Now, he gives me a slight smile. "To honor them. To remember that each link in the chain made it stronger."
Taking his hand, I trace each finger, looking at the network of tiny scars on his knuckles.
Tell him. He deserves to know about the baby.
"I'm taking you to bed," he says, twisting his wrist so he can take my hand and kiss my finger with the wedding ring. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
I'll tell him later.
***
It takes me a couple of tries to put on a black headscarf as we head for the cathedral, and Dmitri holds up his hands. "Don't look at me. I've never worn one."
"So helpful," I mutter, checking my phone again to look at the picture. I'm wearing a black dress, sleeveless but modest. I'd looked up appropriate wear for a Russian Orthodox funeral today.
Dmitri glances at my phone. "How many tabs do you have open?"
"Twenty or something, I'm not sure." I check myself in the rearview mirror. The scarf looks right.
"Is that an attribute of ADHD?" he asks.
This is the first time he's asked about it. He's seen the bottle of Adderall that Ella prescribed for me, but he's never seemed curious or put off by my diagnosis. "It is," I admit. "My laptop is worse."
"I notice it sometimes," he says casually, "when you're very tired or it's been a stressful day. You seem to have a harder time keeping a train of thought. You get restless."
"Yeah, like getting kidnapped from a wedding will do it," I agree. "Or a gunfight at the sandwich shop." His smile fades and I feel terrible. "Stop. I was joking around. Besides, it's not likeyoushot up Gordi's place or dragged me out of a bathroom window. I would be dead right now if it hadn't been for you. And now we're married," I tease him, flashing my enormous wedding ring. "I nailed you down, sucker."
His expression clears and I feel like I did something productive, at least until we pull up to the cathedral. Dmitri changes instantly into someone distant. Reserved, and radiating gravitas. I can't get over how he can go from playful with me to slipping into the heavy mantle of his position.
The line inside is long, men with bushy beards and tattooed knuckles, women wearing elegant dresses and tight smiles, children dressed in nice clothes and trying hard not to fuss. Instead of taking our place at the end, we walk down the line, Dmitri nodding and stopping every now and then to shake hands. He quietly introduces me and I whisper, "Privet,hello,"each time. These people look at me with the same respect they give Dmitri. I wish I could tell them that I haven't earned it.
The three coffins are lined up together, beautiful rosewood caskets, clearly expensive, and a little girl hands me three roses. Dmitri lays a flower on each man's chest and kisses their forehead. Then, it's my turn. One of the men in his casket is painfully young, barely out of his teens, still wearing the faint brush of whiskers on his chin. He has a pregnant wife. My heart falls with a thud as I give her the proper kiss, left cheek, right and left.
Clearing my throat, I murmur,"Primite moi sobolez…ah… novaniya v svyazi…" I take a breath,"svyazi s vashey utratoy." I think I said, "I am very sorry for your loss."
God, I hope that's what I said.
After the service, we mingle with the mourners. Rurik, and Matvey with me, quietly translating when necessary. Watching Dmitri with his people here… he's different. Shoulders broader, his language is more formal. No one is angry at him for the men who were lost. They lean in for comfort or speak to him with respect. An older woman kisses his hand, which I can tell makes him uncomfortable, though he is unfailingly gracious.
"Is there a reason she kissed his hand?" I whisper to Matvey. "Is it an older person's sign of respect?"
"She is thanking him for the Bratva's support," he says quietly. "When a soldier is lost, the Morozovs take care of their family for life."
Looking at the pregnant widow again, hand over her stomach, I want to hug her, tell her how brave she's being and that it will be okay.
