Page 2 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The silence that follows is worse than the noise. It’s that ringing, hollow vacuum where your brain tries to figure out whether you’re still in one piece. I can see the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light breaking through the shattered roof. It looks almost peaceful, if you ignore the fact that the front of the church is now a pile of toothpicks.

Beside me, Mikhail’s hand is shaking, his fingers twitching against mine like a dying fish.

So much for the safe man, I think, my mind veering into a weirdly calm place. He looks like he’s about to piss himself, and we haven't even exchanged rings yet.

Is this the man I’m to live my entire life with?

"Ilya Kovalevskii," my father’s voice growls. It’s the low, dangerous tone he uses right before someone disappears from the city records.

He steps half a pace forward toward me, his hand tightening on my arm so hard, I’m pretty sure I’ll have a permanent lace-patterned bruise by tomorrow.

Ilya doesn't stop walking.

He reaches the start of the pews, his men fanning out behind him with the kind of synchronization that only comes from years of killing people for a living.

He’s taller than the pictures.

Much taller.

And his suit is the kind of black that seems to suck the light out of the room.

"Petr," Ilya says. His voice isn't loud, but it carries to every corner of the wreckage. It’s deep and smooth. "You’re looking frail, Petr. Age doesn’t suit you.”

"You’re in the wrong zip code, Ilya," my father snaps. "This is a house of God. And this is my daughter’s wedding. Get out before I have my men paint the street with your brains."

Ilya freezes for a second and bursts out in a dry, humorless laugh.

He stops at the foot of the altar, ignoring the dozens of guns currently being leveled at his chest by my father’s security.

He looks up at us, his gaze skipping over my father and landing directly on Mikhail.

Mikhail flinches. I can actually feel the heat of his panic.

"I’m not here for you, Petr," Ilya says, tilting his head toward my soon-to-be-husband. "I’m here to collect a debt. And since Mikhail here decided to stop answering his phone, I figured a public venue was the best way to ensure he didn't scurry off into the floorboards."

My father frowns, his eyes darting to Mikhail. "What the hell is he talking about?"

"Nothing! He’s lying, Petr, I swear," Mikhail stammers. His voice is an octave higher than it was five minutes ago. "I don’t owe him anything. He’s just trying to disrupt the alliance. He’s trying to weaken you!"

Ilya pulls a folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket. He moves slowly, like he’s bored. "Fourteen million, Mikhail. Give or take a few hundred thousand in interest. You’ve been skimming from the northern ports for eighteen months. Did you really think I wouldn't notice my own money going missing?"

The gasp that ripples through the guests is almost synchronized. My father’s grip on my arm slackens as his shock turns into fury. He turns to Mikhail, his face darkening to a dangerous shade of purple.

"Mikhail?" Papa asks, and the word is a threat.

"I-I can explain," Mikhail whispers. He looks at Ilya, his eyes wide and pleading. "Ilya, please. Not here. Not like this. I have the money. I’ll get it. Just give me another week. I’m marrying into the Denisov family today—I’ll be good for it. I swear on my life, I’ll have it to you by Friday!"

"You're using my daughter’s dowry to pay off a debt to a Kovalevskii?" My father’s voice is a low hiss. He looks like he’s about to execute Mikhail right here on the carpet.

Great. My wedding has officially turned into an audit.

I want to say something, something that points out how ridiculous this is, but my throat is too tight.

My heart is hitting my ribs so hard it hurts. This is the moment where I should run.

I should hike up this ridiculous white dress and bolt for the side door.

But I can’t move. Because Ilya Kovalevskii has finally looked at me.