Page 249 of Lethal Obsession

She gives the boys a stern look. “That means no running, no fighting, and definitely no shooting anything, not even fruit. You have to keep those clothes clean, because there’s no backups. Now,” she says, closing the door on the mutinous faces and smiling at me in the mirror, “where were we, sweetheart?”

“Her hair,” Masha answers promptly. “Mama is doing her makeup, but she says you’re better at hair, Abby.”

Even all these years later, I still feel a sentimental pang when I hear Masha call Darya Mama. Not because I miss Inger, our biological mother, but rather because hearing it reminds me of how far we have all come as a family—and of Masha’s disturbed early years, when I feared that Mickey and I would be the only family she’d ever know.

“It’s true,” Abby says without any false modesty, ruffling Masha’s curls affectionately. “Dar has got such gorgeous hair, like you, Mash, that she’s never had to learn how to get creative with it.”

“I’m not sure I need anything too creative,” I say warily. “I can probably do it myself—”

“No chance,” Abby says briskly, getting to work with pins, curling iron, hairspray, and flowers. “Your job is to hydrate, then drink just enough bubbles to maintain a level buzz and enjoy the one day when everyone else does things for you.”

“Speaking of which.” Zinaida pops the top off a bottle of Veuve to a round of applause and hands me a flute. “I’ve timed Mila’s feeds,” she says, smiling at me in the mirror, “so I can jolly well have one of those too.”

“You go, girl.” Abby clinks glasses with her. “Anyway, if Mila is going to grow up in this madhouse, she should probably get used to the taste of Veuve at a young age.”

Masha takes a tiny sip of hers and screws up her face. “No me gusta eso,” she says, pushing her glass away, and we all laugh.

“Don’t worry, niña.” Darya reaches into her bag and pulls out a plastic bottle of Spanish tinto de verano, an extremely weak dilution of wine and soda typical to Granada. “I asked Papa to bring this specially for you.”

“Muy bien!” Masha beams, raises her flute to join in the chorus of congratulations, then pushes it aside with a distinct lack of interest and returns to carefully arranging her own hair in a slick flamenca’s bun. She’s wearing a crimson silk ruffled dress with a delicate lace shawl and looks every bit the budding young dancer she is.

“Is it bad luck to read tarot cards on someone’s wedding day?” Darya asks Seline, smiling at her over my shoulder.

“I don’t actually know,” Seline says quietly, “but I’d rather not, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” I smile at her in the mirror. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“I’m so grateful to be here.” She returns my smile shyly, and I reach behind me to grasp her hand. Despite her trademark red lipstick and exquisite dress, there’s very little trace of French accent in her voice now, and her old arrogance has been replaced by a quiet elegance that suits her much better.

“We’re so glad to have you.” Darya smiles at her warmly. “You’re welcome in our home anytime, Seline. I hope you know that.”

Seline returns her smile, but I see the shadow that crosses her eyes before they drop from mine in the mirror. I know she still blames herself for Kiril’s violence toward me and our family, despite the fact that none of it was her fault and that nobody suffered more at his hands than her. Even Alexei has softened toward her over the past couple of days. Deda Sergei too, although he maintains a rather wary distance, and on occasion, I see him watching Seline narrowly, like he’s seeing a past face instead of the present person.

But this is our life, I think, as the chatter moves around me like a comforting cloud. Past and present forever intertwined, rich and deep. Sometimes dark—but definitely never boring.

“Voilà,” Darya says some time later, stepping back and regarding me in the mirror with satisfaction. “And now, ladies, I think it’s time for the dress, no?”

“Si!” Rosa reaches for the dress she’s been busy adjusting the past few days. She originally sewed it for Darya when she married Papa, so she’s picked apart seams and remade them so magically it looks like it was made for me. It’s an elegant sheath of ivory silk with tiny crimson silk rosebuds scattered among the folds. Added to it is an exquisite floor-length Sicilian lace veil in the same ivory color, a handmade gift from the Bellini family. Rosa and the Bellini women have found much in common over the past few days.

The entire Bellini family is, of course, coming to my wedding. Over the course of the past weeks they have become far more than just allies.

We’re bound by blood, honor, and loyalty now. And in our world, those things are the foundation upon which everything else stands.

A group of them comes smiling and laughing into the room now, pressing yet more food upon us, topping up drinks, and fussing as Rosa fixes my gown and veil in place.

Then a deep voice sounds beyond the door. “Is it safe?”

The Bellinis all stop like they’ve been electrified, while the Russian contingent all catch each other’s eyes in the mirror and suppress smiles.

We stopped being intimidated by Papa a long time ago. But for outsiders, he is still Roman Borovsky—and that name has long become legend, in worlds even beyond ours.

Zinaida opens the door, giving him a wry smile as the Bellini women scurry past him. “You big bad pakhan,” I hear her murmur through the door. “Still have them fooled, I see.”

“If you don’t tell them about me, I won’t tell them about you,” Papa answers her in Russian.

She laughs quietly. “Seems like just yesterday you were asking me to help organize her twenty-first. I never imagined that two years later I’d be helping her dress for her wedding.”

“Don’t remind me,” he says dryly. “I’m still wondering if it’s too late to withdraw my approval.”