I could run. Granted, I might not get very far in these high heels, but at least I could say I tried to escape.
I could turn him down. Say no when I get to the altar. But I promised not to do that to him.
“This way, miss.” Rafail’s guard takes my elbow. Stepping into the church is an out-of-body experience. Everything is gold and ornate. I remember Dmitri was vaguely religious but considering he and Mom got married by an Elvis impersonator at a drive-through chapel in Vegas, I never had the impression that he was particularly devout. More to the point, this isn’tmyreligion.
Seeing Rafail standing at the altar, I realize this means a lot to him. Suddenly, it all feels too heavy. Marrying a man I hardly know. Despite our shared history, we’re essentially strangers.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper. Ludmila doesn’t appear to understand me. She fusses with my veil. Music swells, and she points me down the aisle. I look at Rafail, then at the door behind me.
What should I do?
12
RAFAIL
She left me.
Hollow rage and sharp disbelief wash through me. I cannot believe Hailey walked out.
Actually, I can.
My fecklessprintsesadeserves a king. Not a criminal.
All I can offer her is a life of violence and ill-gotten wealth. Cold fury consumes me, followed by a wave of profound grief.
“I will stop her,” says my guard in Russian.
“No. Let her go.” I have my answer. Hailey has satisfied her curiosity about me and now she wants to leave. I have too much pride to beg her to stay. She has made her choice.
Sunlight shafts through the doorway, silhouetting her against the morning sky. I glimpse a dark shape beyond my stunning bride, who is running away from me and the life we could have had together.
Then I am running, too.
A gunshot rings out. Pain slams into my chest, and the world goes dark.
13
HAILEY
This is all my fault.Time seems to warp and bend. Seconds pass by like years, while the minutes flash by in the blink of an eye.
Each frantic, passing moment, Rafail bleeds red, soaking my white dress. They tried to shoot me. A car pulled up. Nobody got out. A man in sunglasses stretched his arm out the window and shot at me, but Rafail pushed me aside and took the bullet.
“Will he live?” I shout at Ludmila. He has to live. She pushes her hands down over mine to put pressure on Rafail’s wound. We careen around a corner. Kneeling on the folded-down back seat of the black SUV, I press hard against his shoulder. Clearly, this isn’t Ludmila’s first time dealing with a gunshot.
We never got to finish our ceremony, all because I needed a moment to think.
We pull to a halt before an unassuming low-slung building that could pass for an autobody shop, marked with an incongruously shiny Urgent Medical Care sign.
“Seriously? We’re going to urgent care for a gunshot wound? We need an emergency room!” I shout at his guards. They ignoremy hysterics and carry him, one under the arms and the other by the ankles, into the waiting room.
“Is bratva hospital,” Ludmila informs me in halting English. “For mafia.”
I follow in my blood-soaked wedding dress, my heels clicking on the tile floors. I’m only a little bit surprised to find Rafail ushered into a fully equipped surgical room staffed by people in scrubs.
“Are you his wife?” one asks me, barely glancing at my ruined dress.
“Yes,” I answer firmly. “You have to save him.”
