The matchmaker gave Dad a pointed look before leaving to give us privacy.
My father was about to open his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’m not changing my mind.”
I clasped his face between my palms. “I’ll be fine, Dad. Kirill and I might not have the romance you had with Mamma, but everyone is different. I’ve never been a romantic, remember?”
“How did you grow up so fast, cara?”
I hated the regret drowning in his eyes. Unless I objected to this wedding, his hands were tied. “Where did I go wrong?”
I gave him a kiss on both cheeks before linking our arms to head toward the event hall. “You didn’t go wrong anywhere.” It was more Mamma’s manipulations that drove me away from my De Lucci family. But no, it went further than that. It was my nonno Moretti’s conditional love. The way he pitted his children against each other to gain his approval. And I had already formed a revulsion against the mafia way after I witnessed that man’s execution when I was only five years old.
As we left the room, Dad’s dragging footfalls tread heavily on the ancient tiles. The ceremony wasn’t traditional. There were no bridesmaids or flower girls or a ring bearer.
Just my father walking me down the aisle.
Before we reached the entrance of the room where the crowd was waiting, I said, “Remember when I said if I ever had the desire to marry, I would just elope and get married on the beach? I never desired a big wedding.”
Because it was what Mamma wanted. And I’d grown up all my life aspiring to do the opposite.
And as the ushers opened the heavy double doors to announce the bride, the sea of people rose.
Most of those in attendance were from the Italian and Russian mafias and distinguished associates and allies. At least there was my De Lucci and Moretti family, even if a few were absent like Bianca and Sandro. Renz and Liz stayed away too and were looking after Elias and Gio while their parents attended the wedding.
My ears were thundering as Dad and I walked down an intricately woven, rolled-out carpet that appeared to be centuries old. One that Margo traditionally used for her matches.
There was no orchestra or symphony. There was simply an organ playing the traditional wedding march.
At the end of the aisle stood Kirill. Ramrod straight and admittedly looking dashing in his tux. It clung to his imposing frame, and his patrician features gave away nothing. His icy eyes followed me down the aisle. Beside him stood Maksim. I’d only met his half brother once during the signing of the prenup.
Ivan, Irina, and Aralina sat in the front row. At least they were smiling widely at me, and they were all who mattered to me from the Zahkarov side.
Mamma sat beside an empty chair closest to the aisle, which was where Dad would be sitting after he delivered me to Kirill. Beside Mamma were Dom and then Luca. Then, there were Uncle Cesar, Matteo, and Nico. Their women, Sloane, Natalya, Aunt Ava, Sera, and Ivy, were near an exit surrounded by De Lucci and Moretti soldiers.
They were still expecting me to be a last-minute runaway bride and were prepared to whisk me away. I wasn’t sure whether I was pleased or appalled by it. It probably explaineda stone-faced Kirill. None of my family except Mamma had accepted him. I didn’t think it mattered, but I was petty enough to be pleased he was irritated.
Tension agitated the air, and the bodice of my gown tightened. The bridal song echoed in my head like a death march. My gaze swept across the room once more in a dizzying arc. I was thankful to be holding on to Dad.
Almost there. And then this will be over.
Kirill stepped forward, a trace of impatience on his face. He was eager to get this charade over with too.
He and Dad stared at each other as Kirill offered me his arm. I clasped his proffered arm, but I had trouble letting go of Dad. And Dad’s hand tightened on my hand clasping his elbow.
Murmurings erupted around the room, and I could feel my male relatives ready to spring.
My breathing quickened.
“Lucy,” Dad rasped. “It’s not too late.”
A tentative smile formed on Kirill’s mouth, breaking the severity of his features. If I hadn’t witnessed firsthand the depth of his deception, I’d have chalked it up to his earnest attempt to reassure my father of his honorable intentions. But I knew now it was nothing but absolute wicked calculation.
“Lusenka,” he said for everyone to hear. “For this to work, you need to let go of your father.”
A round of laughter broke around the room, breaking the standoff. It actually made me breathe easier, injecting a measure of relief into my frayed nerves. If there was one thing Kirill was good at, it was diffusing a tense situation—when he chose to. Probably because he was always the reason for the tension.
He glanced above my head to address the room. “Papa’s girl.” He gave a shake of his head and smiled dazzlingly at Dad. “No one is worthy of your daughter, Paulie, but I will try my best.”
The following “Aw” voiced by the crowd roused conflicting feelings in me. It was sweet, and I’d never seen such a smile from Kirill; there was almost tenderness in his eyes. Was he getting that good?
