Page 138 of Feral King

The chapel is in the Hudson Valley—small, white, and picturesque as they come. Elena has been quietly maintaining this place for years, all for family events exactly like this, one that the Volkovs rarely have.

But they do today.

The Catskills are a gorgeous blue in the distance, and I can’t believe how green the grass is. Behind the chapel, a four-piece brass band—a gift from Elena—warms up for the reception. The scent of jambalaya made by my Uncle Felix wafts through the air.

My dress is gorgeous, white silk with cap sleeves, the fabric draping generously over my belly, which is now at thirty-four weeks, beyond hiding. And that’s fine with me—I feel goddamnglorioustaking up all this space.

“Ready?” Mama asks.

“Nope. But also yep.”

Mama smiles. “That’s the exact right answer.”

We begin to walk. I spot Dad in the front row in his Saints cap and his one good suit, for “marrying and burying,” as he always says. It fits him better than it has in years. His recovery has gone as perfectly as I could’ve hoped for.

Julian is at the altar dressed in black. He is handsome, imposing, and a little scary, but in a wonderful way.

"Hi," I whisper when I reach him.

"Hi."

"You're shaking."

"Yes."

"Me, too."

Mom kisses my cheek, then places my hand in Julian’s. Ethan is the best man, looking gorgeous in a charcoal suit. Anya is my maid of honor, glancing over at Ethan with an expression that makes me wonder if they’re thinking of bolting to the courthouse for a wedding of their own.

Maybe they will.

The reception takes place on the lawn behind the chapel, beneath a massive white tent as the sun goes down and the fireflies begin flickering in the field beyond.

During the cocktail hour, Mr. Yang—who’s made the trip all the way from Shanghai just for us—approaches me and Julian with a small box tied in red silk. He presents it to us with both hands.

“A gift from my organization—with our deepest respect and congratulations.”

“Mr. Yang,” Julian says. “You didn’t have to.”

"Open it, please. I would like to see your reaction."

I open it. Inside, on black velvet, is a set of jewels that are more beautiful than anything I’ve seen in my life. There’s a necklace, earrings, and a bracelet made of imperial jade and deep emerald green, set in gold.

"Oh my God."

"They belonged to a noblewoman in Beijing in the 1890s," Yang says. "They have not been worn in ninety years. They suit you, Mrs. Volkov."

Mrs. Volkov.I realize I haven’t been called that yet today, and the word makes me feel something I can’t quite describe.

"Mr. Yang. I… I don’t know how to thank you.”

"You already have. May your child be born healthy and strong."

The Bratva heads come next, one by one. Baranov approaches first, with the grave seriousness of a man presenting tribute to a tsarina.

"For the bride," he says, and hands me a small, enameled music box. "My grandmother smuggled this out of St. Petersburg in 1919. She said it was lucky. She lived to be ninety-six."

"Baranov, this is too much?—"