Page 69 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I pound on the door, screaming for help, but no one comes. The walls are thick, the windows barred. There’s no way out.

I sink down onto the bed, my head in my hands, and try to think. Roman will come for me. He has to. He’ll realize I’m gone, he’ll figure out what happened, and he’ll come.

How long will it take though, and what will happen in the meantime?

The answer comes a few hours later, when the door opens and someone steps inside.

The woman is thin and tall. She says nothing as she enters. It takes me a second to realize it’s Katya, from the restaurant. Konstantin’s woman.

I’m on my feet in an instant, crossing the room to her. “What’s happening?”

She holds out the garment bag, and I stare at it like it’s a snake.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

I take the bag with trembling hands and unzip it. Inside is a wedding dress.

It’s beautiful, in a terrible sort of way. It’s made of white silk and lace, with a long train and delicate beadwork. It looks like something a princess would wear.

“He’s making me marry Anton,” I say softly.

Katya nods, and her smile is sharp. “The ceremony is tonight at St. Nicholas.”

As I stare at the wedding dress, I can’t help but wonder if hope is just another word for denial.

The car ride to the church is a blur.

I’m dressed in the white gown, my hair pinned into an elaborate style that makes my scalp ache. Katya did it herself, along with my makeup, caking me in dark eyeliner until I barely even resemble myself.

Now, Konstantin sits across from me. “You look lovely,” he says. “Dmitri would have approved.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

My father is in the car behind us, or so I assume. I don’t know if he’s coming to the wedding, and I don’t care.

The church appears as we round the corner. The sun is setting, turning everything to liquid gold. I stare at it through the window and feel nothing.

The car pulls up to the entrance and Konstantin steps out, then offers me his hand. I take it, because what else can I do?

We walk into the church together, his hand on my arm like a vise. St. Nicholas is beautiful, but I barely spare the candles a glance.

My father appears at my side, his grip like iron on my other arm. He doesn’t look at me, only holds on and guides me down the aisle.

The organ swells, and each step toward the altar feels like a death sentence. My vision blurs, the candles smearing into streaks of light. Anton waits for me at the end of the aisle, black suit, perfect posture, triumph gleaming in his eyes.

I reach his side, and he takes my hand. His fingers close around mine, and every instinct in me screams to pull away.

The organ falls silent, and for one terrible moment, so does the entire church. The priest stands before us with his head bowed, his face lost in shadow. He doesn’t move. I wait. Anton shifts beside me, and still nothing.

A murmur ripples through the pews. Anton clears his throat. “Father.”

Slowly, the priest opens the book in front of him. “Dearly beloved,” he begins as he looks down, “we are gathered here today...” He stops, and my stomach knots. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

Anton glances toward him. “Is there a problem?”

The priest turns a page at an agonizing pace, and the silence stretches until I can hear my own pulse.