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He’d fucked off to his pew where a woman I assumed was his wife—not Inessa’s mother, because she was definitely too young—had taken a seat, dressed like some kind of colorblind whore in a bright green dress that was more fitting for a nightclub than a wedding. Her hat looked like she had a nest of parrots on her head, so I knew Vasov hadn’t married her for her taste in clothes, but for the tits that were spilling out of the dress. Tits were thirteen a dozen in my world, especially falsies, so, disinterested once Vasov was seated, I turned to Inessa.
The first thing I looked at was her hand trapped in mine. Her fingers were slender, delicate. The skin white and soft against my callused digits. The proof of my trade was written into the rough flesh of my hands, and there’d been so much blood shed by them that it should have marred her purity in a flash. The ring my father had procured for her sat on her finger. It wasn’t gaudy, which told me Ma had helped purchase it, and the clear emerald was a dark, rich green that throbbed with life.
I had to think that, with her involvement, the emerald would suit Inessa’s character—Ma would know my bride more than me. She’d met the bitch, after all. That was more than I’d done. So, for whatever reason, she sported an emerald instead of a diamond, and the heavy stone suited her delicate hand.
Letting my gaze drift over her fingers to her wrist, I took note of the thin sleeve that covered her forearm, and when I saw no sliver of skin, her face held more interest to me. Only, her head was covered with a veil, a thick one. The lace so dense that it was a wonder she could see through it without tripping.
The cream color reminded me of paper that had been aged with tea, and it draped over her, covering her from head to waist, revealing only a tight bodice that was decorated with what were probably diamonds, and the flared skirt that was like fancy netting that flounced with each step. It was large, enough for the skirts to get in my way and to put a few feet of distance between us.
Her other hand was primly pressed in front of her belly where she held the offending bouquet of lilies. The sight filled me with relief, even if I knew lilies were usually funereal flowers, not wedding. That she didn’t use a lily-based scent actually perked me up.
What didn’t?
Why her father hadn’t raised her veil.
Why her maid of honor hadn’t darted forward to do the same.
I wasn’t a man who appreciated weddings, but I was Catholic. Weddings, funerals, and fucking baptisms were our stock-in-trade.
I knew the score.
And I knew that, even if the Orthodox rituals were different, they weren’t that different.
Even if they were, I knew my father. He’d have micromanaged the shit out of the ceremony, and he liked things done just so. He wanted the world to know the father was giving up the daughter, handing her over like a virgin sacrifice. He’d want Vasov to raise the veil, to look at Inessa, for the girl to know she was a commodity her father was willing to trade, before handing her over to the buyer.
Yeah, sick, but that was daddy dearest for you.
That was how I knew something was going on.
Something that set my nerves on edge.
I stared at her so long, I heard Dec whisper, “What’s the hold up?” I could easily foresee Da cutting him looks, glaring at him and waving his hands in an effort to get him to do something, but that wasn’t going to work now. Not here. Not at this moment.
Behind me, people started to murmur too, wondering why I wasn’t moving. I could imagine my father’s face had gone from jubilant at a successful plan coming to fruition, to infuriated as he wondered what I was waiting for.
I just knew my mother was having to calm him down, and behind me, I could feel Doyle shuffling, his cassock whispering against the altar, and the bridesmaids starting to grow uneasy as my pause went to extreme lengths.
I ignored it all, focused only on her, on the puzzle that I was about to uncover, because all my instincts were telling me something.
Something I didn’t fucking like.
They were hiding her away like she was some ugly bitch, where Declan had distinctly told me she was beautiful. He wouldn’t lie. Not to me. Not without knowing I’d castrate him if he lied about that.
So what the fuck were they hiding?
Whether I wanted Inessa or not, she was my property. Had been since my goddamn father had tied me into this fucking engagement.
And I knew, fucking knew what I was about to see.
So my stillness?
It was me trying to prepare myself.
Me trying to calm myself down, because if I didn’t, I would slice Vasov up like a motherfucker, and I didn’t care who was watching.
Deputy Attorney Generals, Lieutenant Governors, and five hundred and ninety other witnesses be damned, blood would stain the altar of St. Patrick’s for an eternity if I didn’t get a handle on my temper.
The bouquet trembled, and I knew I was frightening Inessa—unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. Not now.
