I laughed so hard I had to lean on a pew to stop myself from falling. The photographer lowered the camera and looked at me with the wary expression of a man who had worked celebrity weddings for twenty years and still wasn't prepared for the Russian mafia.
Gregor stood behind Maeve with one hand resting on her waist, Mac tucked into the crook of his other arm. Fergus sat at our feet in his bowtie, having decided that looking at the camera was beneath his dignity. Mary leaned into Maeve's side, bright-eyed and alive and free in a way she hadn't been a week ago, a month ago, or ever because of her father.
Artem put his hand over Maeve's on the bouquet.
And something in his face finally cracked open. A real smile. One that had been waiting since Prague.
The shutter caught it.
There. Proof. And it wasn’t for the Bratva council, but for us.
"One more," the photographer said. "Everyone together."
"Everyone?" Gregor asked.
"The whole family."
Fergus barked. Mac opened his eyes, registered the situation, and immediately closed them again.
"The whole family," Maeve repeated, and her voice caught on the last word.
I put my arm around her from one side. Gregor from the other. Artem pulled her back against his chest, and Mary grabbed Fergus and squeezed in next to me, and somehow we all fit in the frame even though we shouldn't have.
The flash went off.
"Now," I said, "all we have to do is forge a marriage certificate, survive a honeymoon, and go to war."
Maeve elbowed me.
"I was being optimistic."
"That was optimistic?"
"For me? Extremely."
17
Maeve
Las Vegas was fun,but Hawaii was amazing.
The villa was obscene.
White walls, open doors, polished floors that stayed cool under bare feet, and an infinity pool that looked like it was spilling straight into the Pacific. Every room faced the ocean. Every surface held something, from fruit cut into shapes, towels folded into swans, to flowers drifting in ceramic bowls.
Six security men were pretending to be landscaping staff.
They were terrible at it.
One had been standing beside a hibiscus bush for twenty minutes holding pruning shears upside down. Another wore a floral shirt over what was clearly a shoulder holster and had spent the morning glowering at the sun. The third kept repositioning a tray of pineapple slices as though the pineapple's tactical placement was critical to the villa's defenses.
"Are those gardeners?" Mary asked, peering over her sunglasses.
Ivan was floating in the pool with Mac asleep on his bare chest. He didn't even look. "Yes."
"That one has an earpiece."
"Modern gardening."
