"Also, if myniecemarries youruncle, that makes us all a happy family, right?"
"Right," I admit,not convinced. Butwhat choice do I have other than to trust him right now? Time will tell.
"What about Margarita's other daughters?" Marcello interjects as,slowly,one by one,more of the suddenly very complicated family ties unravel.
"They're all married, but we need to keep tight security on them," Toni suggests.
"All but Camilla and the newly widowed Isabella," Enrico points out.
Stephano rubs a hand over his face. "What a fucking mess. And your uncle? He’ll never agree."
"He will," I say simply.
"Grigori?" he pushes.
"That," I admit, "will be harder."
Understatement of the century. Because Grigori will explode. He’ll threaten bloodshed. He’ll pace. He’ll curse.
In the end, he’ll accept.
Because as much as he hates the Voronin, he'llunderstand how important this will be to ensuring peace between our families.
Stephano steps closer, lowering his voice for only me. "Oksana… are you sure?"
I look him dead in the eyes. "This protects your family and mine. And it keeps Camilla alive."
"Alright, somebody needs to talk to Camilla."
EPILOGUE
The wedding receptionlooks like someone tried to fuse the Kremlin, the Vatican, and the Bellagio into one building and hoped it wouldn’t explode. It’s a miracle it hasn’t. Yet.
Crystal chandeliers glitter above imported white marble floors. Italian roses spill from vases the size of toddlers. The air smells like Prosecco, gunpowder, and Russian cologne so strong it could start a small war.
The Russians stand on one side of the room in their black suits, posture perfect, eyes cold. The Italians stand on the other—loud, animated, gesturing with their hands like they’re conducting an orchestra.
And Stephano and me?
We are in the middle.
Literally.
Figuratively.
Politically.
Emotionally.
My husband’s hand rests low on my back, a touch that tells meI’m here, I’ve got you, and he does. He always does. Across the ballroom, I spot Mikhail—my newly volunteered sacrificial lamb—scowling so hard he looks like he might crack the marble. He makes a beeline for me with the grace of an approaching bull.
"You," he growls. "This smells like one of your brilliant ideas."
I beam. "Yes."
He does not beam back. Too bad. He is, after all, my favorite uncle. We're so similar. Mikhail Arsenyevhates many things: disobedience, vodka brands not distilled in Siberia, and—most of all—Voronins.
And now he’s being forced to marry one.
