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Kira danced with the little boy, delighting in his silly movements and unselfconscious laugh. She kept her eyes focused on him, ignoring Lyonya, who stood on the lawn with Ivan Demenok.
Still, she felt his eyes on her, had felt them on her all night. It took discipline to keep her face impassive, not to let the quickening of her blood give her away in a blush or tremble, but she’d done it.
She’d done it because like millions of women before her, millions of women throughout history, her power lay in her appeal. And for a man like Lyonya — for nearly any man — that appeal was heightened when the thing he desired was out of reach.
So, out of reach she would remain, withholding her affection, her approval, her desire, using it at a time of her choosing, a time when it would be most advantageous.
The song changed from the upbeat tune to something slow and soft, an old Frank Sinatra song: The Way You Look Tonight.
She smiled at the little boy, the son of Silas Gorsky, one of the members of the Two Spies, and sent him along to his mother, waving him off the dance floor from the sidelines.
Couples coalesced around her, moving into each other’s arms as the music swept over the crowd. She felt a momentary pang. It was her wedding night, and she had no one to slow dance with, no one who shared her heart.
“Care for a dance with your pápochka,moya zolotaya?”
She turned to find her father looking down at her with a smile.
“Of course.” She slipped into his big arms and let him guide her around the dance floor.
“This is a perfect song,” her father said. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”
“Thank you, Papa. You look rather dashing yourself.”
She’d opted not to have the traditional father-daughter dance. Doing so would have made it necessary to have the traditional first couple dance, and she wasn’t ready to share such intimacy with Lyonya.
The wedding reception was a necessary part of the arrangement with Lyonya, a way to show the bratva that they were joined in name, but she had drawn the line at some of the more romantic traditions. Those she would save for some time in the future, when maybe she would be allowed to marry a man of her heart.
She looked up at her father. “Do you think it’s gone well?”
He hesitated, his gaze darting around the dance floor. “It’s gone as expected.”
She knew what that meant: some of the men were already throwing their support behind Lyonya.
Others were already plotting his fall.
“Pardon me.” The gruff voice sounded at her shoulder, and she turned to find herself staring into Lyonya’s dark eyes. “I’d like to dance with my wife.”
The word sent a shiver up her spine. She was this big, violent man’s wife. This man who had killed other men. This man who had consigned Yakov Vitsin to a watery grave for a chance at the bratva throne.
Kira’s father released her, gave Lyonya a small bow, and kissed Kira’s cheek before stepping away.
Lyonya pulled her into his arms, pressing her body against his with a firm hand at the small of her back. She felt the bulk of the gun strapped to his side, hidden under his jacket. It wasn’t at all surprising, despite the fact that it was their wedding day. The event was full of men carrying weapons. It was in their business, in their blood.
Still, it quickened her pulse: a reminder that she’d married a dangerous man. His scent — musky and laced with tobacco and warm wood — worked its way through her body like a spell, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe, the air sucked from her lungs by the sensation of Lyonya’s hard body pressed against hers, his strong arms moving her effortlessly through the crowd.
She was suddenly all too aware of their age difference — Lyon an experienced man of nearly forty, Kira just twenty-six years old. It hadn’t seemed to matter before. Now it felt like another way the scales were tipped in his favor.
“Relax,” Lyonya commanded into her hair. The whisper of his breath sent a rush of desire through her body. “Time to play the happy couple.”
Sadness settled like a weight in her chest. She’d always been too pragmatic to spend hours dreaming about her wedding, but on the rare occasions when it crossed her mind, she’d imagined herself smiling up at her groom.
She’d imagined herself happy.
She looked around at the crowd, if only to take her mind off the man holding her in his arms, off the fact that from now on, she would be living under his roof, sleeping in his bed.
She tried to smile at the guests, most of whom watched them approvingly: the women and children, a few of the older men.
