I sit back in the chair, relieved and terrified at the same time.
“Hold on,” Danyl says. “Having a baby is better if you want citizenship.”
Alexei waves his hand. “We take the clause out.”
Danyl shakes his head, but strikes out the paragraph with swift pen strokes that Alexei and I then initial.
I take a deep breath, my leg bouncing like crazy as a lean over the table and sign my name at the bottom of the page, the ink dark and final.
I’m about to marry someone I know nothing about, hoping he’ll stay true to the words he just signed and not physically intimidate or hurt me.
How did this become my life?
How am I supposed to survive this life?
4. WEDDING
ALEXEI
Five days ago, she signed her name on a contract to marry me. Today, I wait for her at the altar of a small chapel that sits at the end of a small lake a few minutes outside the city.
It’s a pretty building with pale stone decor, ornate wooden doors, and windows overlooking the water where ducks paddle around, quacking like they’re telling each other dirty jokes.
It’s the kind of place where real weddings take place, between people in love.
People who invite friends and family to fill up the pews and witness their joyous union.
Today, though, the chapel is almost empty. No bouquets, no cousin with a camera, no drunk bridesmaids, no speeches. Just Danyl and Liza as our witnesses.
I texted my wife-to-be, asking if she wanted a friend to be her bridesmaid. We need authenticity for the pictures, in case we get interviewed by immigration. But Rose sent back a short “no” and so Danyl asked Liza to come. And we can spin that into our story,make Liza and Rose into friends from a while back, and that’s how we met. Liza introduced us.
She’ll end up getting to know Liza eventually, anyway. Bratva wives socialize mostly among themselves. There are too many secrets in our lives that they can’t tell others.
I adjust the cuff of my tuxedo and take a deep breath. The air is coo. The ducks are loud, and the chaplain keeps muttering to himself as he checks his phone.
The door at the back of the chapel opens, and the opening piano notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D play through the speakers. I turn just as a cello joins the piano.
Rose walks in on the arm of her father.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
She’s in a white simple gown. The strapless top hugs her curves tightly, but from the waist down, the dress flows in straight, soft folds down to her feet. Her raven-black hair is down, a little messy, like she didn’t fight it too hard, and she’s wearing a crown of white and red roses. Her makeup is spare, just enough to soften the shadows under her gorgeous sky-blue eyes.
My bride is breathtakingly beautiful.
Her father walks beside her, stiff, trying to carry himself like a proud parent instead of a guilty man. His tie is askew. The miserable bastard couldn’t even get that one little detail right. Danyl paid for the clothes Drew’s wearing. All he had to do today was dress himself and show up.
I make a note to straighten his tie before the pictures.
I can’t give Rose the perfect wedding, but I can give her perfect wedding pictures. The illusion of the happy beginning of this marriage.
She’s tired.
I can see that from the way she walks. The slight drag in her step, the way her shoulders roll forward. She’s trying to hold her spine straight, but her body is begging to fold.
She’s scared, too. Her gaze bounces all over the place. She keeps glancing at me, then away, like I might lunge.
I straighten up as she gets closer.
