Page 10 of Marrying the Savage

I had heard talk of an agreement between Antonov and Sokolov, but no one had been able to tell me the truth. Territory? Weapons? Ports? Shared protection? A debt settlement? A marriage had been mentioned once, dismissed twice, then buried under conflicting reports.

Now I have seen the card with my own eyes. Cream paper. Gold lettering. Dmitri Sokolov’s hand resting on it like a man touching a crown.

Sofia and I are getting married, he said. Two weeks from today.

Two weeks.

They kept it that quiet. That is interesting.

That is also unacceptable.

My driver waits beside the open door, eyes lowered. I finally get into the car. Mikhail follows and sits across from me, while the others take the second vehicle. The door closes, muting the city into a dull hum behind tinted glass.

Mikhail removes his phone from his coat pocket. He doesn’t need it, not really. He has already memorized what matters. But he checks anyway, because accuracy is one of the reasons he is alive.

I lean back against the leather seat. “And yet Sokolov is careless enough to discuss the wedding in a restaurant.”

“He didn’t expect you there,” Mikhail says.

“No.”

That’s the truth of it.

Dmitri Sokolov had not wanted me to see the invitation. Not really. The boy is arrogant, yes, but not strategic enough to set a trap with cream cardstock and wounded pride. He had shown me the card because I had already unsettled him, because Sergei’s reaction had embarrassed him, and because men like Dmitri reach for whatever proves they are powerful when someone makes them feel small.

A wedding.

A bride.

An alliance.

He wanted the room to remember he was important. Instead, he confirmed something his family and the Antonovs had clearly worked hard to keep quiet.

“Then this was a mistake,” Mikhail says.

“For him.”

“And for Sergei.”

“Especially for Sergei.”

I think of the old man’s face when Dmitri lifted the invitation. Sergei did not look proud. He did not look satisfied, as a man should when unveiling an alliance strong enough to alter the balance of power in the city.

He looked irritated.

No. More than irritated.

Alarmed.

That interests me more than the invitation itself.

The car moves through traffic, smooth and silent. Outside the tinted window, Moscow continues as if it does not care who marries whom, who betrays whom, who bleeds in which church. Cities are like that. They outlive all of us and pretend innocence after every crime.

“What do we know about the girl?” I ask.

Mikhail looks up from his phone. There’s a brief pause. He expected questions about Sergei. About Sokolov. About the alliance. Not about her.

“Not enough,” he says.