Page 117 of Bratva Baby

“I know.”

“Look at me.”

I do, and the steadiness in his face helps. It always annoys me when he helps.

The ceremony takes place in the old hall instead of the chapel because the hall holds more men, more exits, and fewer dramatic saints looking offended by the guest list. Leonidov men sit to the left. Reznikov men sit to the right. The brokers and neutral associates are placed in the middle because Yuri says cowards make good padding.

Grigor waits near the entrance to walk me in.

He looks older than he did the night Maks fell, but harder too. Cleaner, maybe, in the way a man looks after cutting rot out of his own house and living with the smell of it. He holds a folded length of dark fabric over one arm.

I stop when I see it. “What’s that?”

His thumb moves once over the edge. “Your father’s.”

The room behind me fades to movement and low voices, but my attention locks on the fabric. Deep charcoal wool, woven by hand, with a narrow border of black and silver thread. It isn’t flashy. It’s beautiful in a severe way. Practical. Expensive if you know work from decoration.

“He bought it when he was twenty-three,” Grigor says. “Before the suits, before the cars, before any of us knew how much trouble money could become. He had one good coat made from half of it and kept the rest. Said one day, he’d give it to his daughter if she ever had the bad taste to marry a difficult man.”

My throat tightens so fast I have to look away. “He said that?”

“He said worse. I’m editing for a wedding.”

A laugh slips out before the tears can win. Grigor unfolds the fabric and drapes it around my shoulders, careful for a man who has never done anything gently unless forced by injury or guilt.

“It’s not a veil,” he says. “Your father wouldn’t have hidden your face.”

My fingers close around the edge. “No. He wouldn’t.”

Grigor looks toward Anton, who is waiting at the far end of the hall with his hands still and his eyes fixed on me. “He would’ve disliked him on principle.”

“He’d have respected him eventually.”

“Yes,” Grigor says. “After making him miserable for a year.”

“Only a year?”

My uncle’s mouth shifts. “You’re right. Two.”

We walk.

Every step feels public. Every eye in the room understands what the handloom means, even if they don’t know the story. Grigor isn’t just walking me to Anton. He’s returning my father’s place to me in front of both houses. Leonidov blood isn’t being handed over. It’s arriving with its own weight.

Anton sees the fabric before I reach him. His gaze moves over the border, then to Grigor, then back to me. Something hard changes in his face.

Grigor places my hand in Anton’s and keeps hold of us both for one extra second. “She comes with her father’s name, her own mind, and my protection.”

Anton doesn’t blink. “I know.”

“Good. Forget any of that and I’ll become unpleasant.”

“You’ve been unpleasant since I met you.”

A few men nearby go still. I almost laugh.

Grigor looks at him for a long second, then gives the smallest nod. “Fine. You’ll do.”

The registrar clears his throat like he wants to live, and the ceremony begins.