“I’m not crying,” I insist.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “That’s what I said on my wedding day, too.” She smooths a stray strand of hair and looks at me in the mirror. “I knew something had changed when you met him, you couldn’t hide it, you came into work with that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one that says that you’d met someone special, someone you felt deeply for that you weren’t yet sure you should.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “The one that says something happened that you didn’t want to tell me about, but that you weren’t sorry happened either.”
I look at her, “Rosa.”
“I’m just saying I called it,” she says. “From the very beginning I called it.” She steps back and looks at me with that soft look in her eyes. The warmth of someone genuinely happy for their friend. “You deserve this,” she says. “Both of you.”
She’s not talking about Victor; she means Evie and me. I don’t argue with her. Because for the first time in my life, I agree.
I look back at my reflection in the mirror — this new version of myself, compared to the version I’m preparing to leave behind. The journey began with four hundred and twelve dollars, a copied key, and a photograph. Now it was ending with a white dress, in a hotel suite, and a wedding.
Deemed ready, we walked out together, and surprisingly, I feel ready to explore this next phase in life.
The venue is a private hall on the north side of the city with which Victor has a contract. The space has been transformed overnight into something that bears no resemblance to the underworld we operate in. Flowers everywhere — white and deep green, candlelight, and guests.
Mr. Roberts sits in the third row in a suit that I strongly suspect he has not worn in the last decade. When he sees me come through the door, his face lights up, and he puts his hand over his heart, nodding once.
Rosa slips into a seat in the second row beside a woman I don’t know. She leans over to say something to her, and Rosa listens with a look of interest. I’ll ask about it later; right now, I’m getting married.
Several prominent Russian families are present. All of them in designated rows, dressed accordingly. I’ve been introduced to most of them.
Annika and Kirill Bogdanov are near the back, which I am told is their preference. Annika catches my eye as I pass and gives asmall nod of approval. Basili and his wife are two rows ahead of them, near the aisle. His dark eyes are watchful. He, too, gives a nod of approval as I pass. Victor told me he is someone worth knowing, which, from Victor, is the highest endorsement.
And then there is Victor.
Standing at the end of the aisle. In a suit that has been made for him, dark and precise, his shoulder is healed. He looks at me with pride as I walk toward him, and I don’t look away.
The ceremony is short and sweet. Victor isn’t a man who appreciates overindulgence and unnecessary fanfare, which extends apparently to vows, even simple and direct. When he is done, I say mine, smiling the whole time.
He kisses me when it’s over, and the room erupts with celebration.
Evie is beside me, my maid of honor, and she manages not to cry but just barely. Her jaw set and her eyes bright as she struggles to keep her composure.
After the reception, she goes with Rosa, as planned, with Vera and an overnight bag in tow.
“Behave,” I tell her when I hug her goodbye.
“I always do,” she says.
She pulls back and looks at me with a look I’ve never seen before. Not just loving, but content.
“You look happy,” she says quietly. So only I hear. “And I’m really happy for you.”
“I am,” I tell her. Which is the truest thing I’ve said in years.
She nods, satisfied with that, and goes with Rosa. I watch them go, leaning against Victor gently, his hand finds the small of my back, and I lean into it. We watch them drive away before he guides me to our own car, and we head back to the penthouse.
When we get there, it's quiet, it’s just us for the first time ever. Victor closes the door, and I hear the locks engage. He turns and looks at me across the room, and the look on his face is one of pure mischief.
“Come here,” he commands.
I cross the room with a smile I can’t resist.
He takes my face in both hands, fingers curving at my jaw, tilting my chin up, and he looks deep in my eyes as he says, “Moya zhena.”
