"But it's moving so fast."
Niamh shoots me a look that suggests she thinks I'm being naïve. "You know how things are with men like him."
Yes, I do, and I understand that in our world rushed weddings happen all the time, sometimes at gunpoint. I guess I should be grateful I'm not being marched down the aisle by one of Gabriele's soldiers.
"I know, but I expected a day or two."
Niamh shakes her head. "Given Orlov's presence in the city, it wouldn't be safe to delay."
She glances toward the front of the church where Gabriele has now joined Lukas. His back is to me but the way he stands, tall and unflinching, tells me he isn't having the same doubts I am.
"If you're worried about the wedding night, you could ask him for more time," Niamh suggests.
"I'm not worried about that." I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. "Should I be?"
"No," Niamh assures me. "I've known Gabriele a long time. He's a decent man. Well, at least he is where women are concerned."
"I hope you're right."
"I am." Niamh purses her lips as she studies my expression, which no doubt betrays my scepticism and apprehension. "Listen, Katya, if you're good to Gabriele I'm sure he'll be good to you. He's a controlling asshole at times but he didn't deserve what happened to him and I'd hate to think he's being treated badly."
"This is a warning?" I ask.
"It is. If you hurt him I will see to it that you end up in the nastiest, filthiest hellhole I can find." Niamh smooths down her skirt as though she didn't just threaten me. "But I don't think that will happen, Katya. I put you two together for a reason. In time, you'll make a formidable duo."
I snort at that. "What, like Batman and Robin?"
Niamh shakes her head. "I can't imagine you as anyone's sidekick."
Before I have time to analyse that comment, she offers me her arm.
"Shall we do this properly?"
I link my arm with hers and we walk into the church. It's cool inside the building, which is a relief because the heat, even in the shade of the vestibule, was killing me. There's a musty smell in the air. Damp, I think. It's not too unpleasant, just a background note I'd rather wasn't there.
A red carpet has been laid along the aisle, across an old stone floor. There are rows of wooden pews on either side. It's sad to see the church so empty but I can't think of a single person I'd want to fill those seats. My father has lost my respect in recent months and my mother never had it. She's too concerned with her own position to give a shit about mine.
As Niamh and I reach the altar, Gabriele turns. He reaches over to the nearest seat and retrieves a bouquet of pink peonies which he hands to me. I don't have the heart to tell him I should have had them to carry down the aisle. Instead I accept them as the small gesture of kindness I think he means them to be. I allow myself a smile. Pink peonies. Did he choose them himself or send some lackey to a florist to ask for something bridal?
His eye moves over me once, briefly, before he looks away. Whatever he thinks of the image I present in this swathe of ivory silk, he keeps it locked behind his inscrutable facade.
"Begin," he tells the priest.
Most of the weddings I've attended have been in the Russian Orthodox Church with all the pomp and ceremony that entails. I've also been to one or two Catholic ceremonies, so I recognise how pared down this is. There are no readings from the Bible, no hymns, no pause for reflection. The priest, who's younger thanI'd have expected, rattles off something in Italian which could be a blessing or a curse for all I know.
He doesn't switch to English for the vows. I only know I'm supposed to respond when Gabriele and Lukas stare pointedly at me.
"Sì." Apparently my response is correct as the raven-haired priest nods approvingly and carries on talking.
The singsong rhythm and soothing quality of his voice lull me into a trance that's broken when Gabriele clears his throat loudly. He holds his hand out for mine and slides a plain gold band onto my finger. Lukas hands me a matching one. I pass my bouquet to Niamh so I can put the ring on Gabriele's finger. Should I read something into him choosing to wear a symbol of our marriage?
No, I decide, I shouldn't. I need to stop looking for hopeful signs where there are none. Wearing a ring is practical. It lets people know his marital status, that's all. It's not some romantic gesture toward a woman he barely knows.
I'm so busy chastising myself for chasing unicorns that I almost miss the conclusion of the ceremony. Gabriele skips over the kiss-the-bride part and takes my hand, leading me over to a table at the side of the room. A sheaf of papers is laid out on it, in Italian, of course.
"What am I signing?" I ask as Gabriele hands me a pen.
"The marriage certificate and your agreement to the terms we discussed."
