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Two other men run into the room. The first one is the tall, thin man from yesterday. He has a dress and a plastic bag from a drugstore. The other one pulls a needle out of his pocket.
“Don’t dose her, we need her lucid for the ceremony.” He pulls me up by my throat, so I’m forced to look him in the eye. Even in a tuxedo with the perfect haircut, he still has that air of mental instability you can only get from being delusional. “You’re going to get dressed, put some makeup on, and do something with that rat’s nest on your head. If you’re not ready in thirty minutes, I will let my men pass you around and have some fun with you, you dirty whore. I’ll film it too and send it to your family. Don’t fucking test me.”
I consider his gang rape threat. I know how men like him think. This marriage may be a sham—a ploy to get my father on the hook—but Dmitri looks at women like they’re property. I would still be his toy, and I doubt he’d want his entire crew playing with me.
He’s obviously mentally unwell, though, so who knows what he’s thinking. I don’t want to risk it, so I’ll play by his rules… for now.
“How can I doll myself up for my new husband when my hands are tied behind my back?”
The man who held the dress pulls his suit coat back, showing off his holstered gun. Dmitri hands him a knife and motions toward my hands. He’s seriously too scared to cut me loose himself? What a joke.
“Ivan is going to supervise you. He has no issue beating you to a pulp if you attack him or don’t cooperate, so don’t do anything crazy. He’ll take you up in twenty-seven minutes.” He turns on his heels and leaves.
Ivan is harmless enough as I get ready. He leers at me as I’m changing into the dress, but he doesn’t touch me. Small mercies, I guess.
I can get through this. All I have to do is show up at the church, and somehow, I’ll find a way to free myself. Even if I have to marry this piece of shit, I’ll slit his throat before we consummate this unbearable union, and then my famiglia and The Brigade will go scorched-earth and burn their whole operation to the ground. Easy enough.
I’m brought upstairs and Dmitri inspects me for the church. He sneers at me in my ill-fitting dress and drugstore makeup, but this is the best I can do with what he gave me. His men handcuff me and load me into the back of a limo, and Dmitri sits a healthy distance next to me. He picks his nose, flicking it off his fingers and onto the car floor, and I fight the urge to vomit all over this mermaid cut monstrosity he insisted I wear. He couldn’t have picked a worse dress for someone with my figure. The whole drive, I wish I was on my way to marry someone else. Someone tall, crazy, and attractive. Garrix. Not this lunatic.
I’d wear a beautiful vintage inspired A-line gown, with my hair in a Hollywood glam style. I’d have Max as my best person, because he’s the only person I’d want by my side. Garrix would wear a sharp tuxedo—or maybe a kilt, since Cameron sounds like a Scottish last name—and the whole affair would be intimate. Not like some of the weddings these other families have where half the city is invited.
Fuck… I fell in love with him. I swore to myself that I would never let a man take me off course or distract me from my goals… but somehow Garrix Cameron came in and turned my entire life upside down. And hopefully, he’s on his way to bust me out of here before I’m forced to marry this prick.
We pull up to the church, and it looks just like one you’d find in the middle of Moscow. The cupola ceiling, red brick, and intricate ironwork are beautiful. Dmitri doesn’t give me any time to truly appreciate the architecture, though, before his goons drag me inside.
The church is filled with Russians. His father, brothers, new stepmother, and soldiers sit in the front, and others sit in the pews. There are too many of them for me to try to make a break for it. Even if he uncuffed me, I can’t fight that many men at once.
The Priest stands at the altar with a soldier who has a gun pointed at him. I guess that’s the familial influence Dmitri spoke of last night. He keeps the service short and sweet, not like his brother’s wedding that I attended a couple of years ago. There are no traditions or readings. Part of me is glad, because the thought of standing next to this asshole when I should be next to Garrix makes me sick… But I also need a way to stall for more time so I can find a way out… in case no one comes for me. The thought of no one coming for me makes me want to cry, but I keep myself together. Crying never helps in a hostage situation like this.
“Does anyone present today have any objections as to why this man and woman should not be joined today in holy matrimony?” the Priest asks. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
For a split second, everyone sits in complete silence. The old windbag moistens his lips with his dry-as-fuck tongue while waiting for an objection. I’m about to open my mouth and say something to buy some time, but the lights cut out, plunging the entire church into semi-darkness.
The ceremony pauses, and something—call it a woman’s intuition—tells me that Dmitri’s entire plan is about to go to shit. Whispered, panicked murmurs spread throughout the pews, and a couple of Russian guards are hustling Artyom’s new wife toward the rectory, where they assume she’ll be safer.
I truly believe no one is safe right now. If this is Garrix, he’ll leave no prisoners. He’s a touch-her-and-die kind of guy. Neither will my brothers. Italians firmly believe in vendettas and finishing whatever their enemies start.
Masked men file in from doors on both sides of the church and the basement. Some carry semi-automatics, while others carry handguns and crossbows. One even has a baseball bat, and another has a chain with barbed wire weaved between the links. A man toward the back holds a very familiar looking machete, and my breath catches.
He brought his whole crew?!
Dmitri’s uninvited guests are covered from head to toe in black tactical gear, making it very difficult to identify them. They surround the perimeter of the building, while others come up the aisles.
Before I can anticipate their next move, a hulking figure drops down behind me from the exposed beams in the vaulted ceiling. Like a big cat, he lands in a graceful crouch, then rises to his feet. A thrumming energy races through my veins and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
The man wears an understated Italian Carnevale mask with bright green and purple paint around the eyes, nose, and mouth. Metallic flecks of gold throughout the mask make it look electric, catching the faint light coming through the windows. There’s a slash across the left eye crusted with black glitter—it looks slick, like a fresh wound. His black trench coat gives the look an old-school 1930s mob vibe.
Familiar hair peeks out from behind the mask. Pale skin with bold and colorful tattoos on the backs of his hands and the gleam in his eyes gives him away… Only one person I know has that kind of big deranged energy. He’s the only man that can make me feel this way just from being near him.
Garrix removes his mask with one hand, letting it hang from the string around his neck while receiving a gun in the other from one of his associates near the front of the room. He leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Did you miss me, kitten?” he asks in a theatrical voice as wraps his arms around me. “You look absolutely beautiful. A present wrapped in fancy white fabric, how lucky am I?”
Dimitri’s face turns a splotchy shade of red, his fists balling at his sides. He looks like he’s about to go nuclear.
“Hands off my wife,” he growls. Well, it’s not really primal sounding enough for a growl. It’s really a hoarse, grumbly kinda sound. Like he had a bunch of popcorn in his mouth and some got stuck in his windpipe after he swallowed it. Too bad he isn’t choking on actual popcorn.
The masked men’s cackling echoes throughout the church. It’s sort of creepy because they’re all wearing such ridiculous masks. I know Fitzpatrick is wearing the Nixon mask because of the tattoos on his neck. No one else but French would wear a Mardi Gras mask. He would never pass up an opportunity for such an obvious pun. But I have no clue who’s wearing the plague doctor, gas, hockey, or Guy Fawkes masks. And one of them must have thought ‘fuck this shit’, because he’s wearing a red bandana over his nose and mouth with a cowboy hat. Talk about role playing.
