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As the wedding officiant starts reciting his part, I don’t hear a word of what he says. My whole being is focused on the man standing by my side. When I entered the room and my eyes landed on his huge frame at the end of the aisle, I almost stumbled, and only the years of practice I had on the stage made me keep moving forward. He is built like a professional fighter, his wide shoulders straining the material of his jacket. He’s wearing a black shirt and black dress pants, and with his ink-black hair and that eyepatch, he looks like a dark avenging angel.
I didn’t notice the scars right away because I was too focused on his imposing figure. The largest scar starts above his right eyebrow and runs straight down his face, disappearing under the eyepatch and then continuing down to his jaw. There is another one next to it, starting from somewhere under the eyepatch and trailing down to a point slightly above the corner of his lips. The one on the left side of his chin, runs the length of his neck and disappears under the collar of his dress shirt. I have no idea what could have happened to him to inflict such wounds, but it must have been something horrific. Most men I know would have grown a beard to conceal at least some of the lines marring their face. Looks like my soon-to-be husband doesn't hide his scars, because he is clean-shaven as if he doesn’t give a fuck what other people might think.
The wedding officiant finishes his speech, and the man who is standing next to my groom approaches and places a small velvet box with wedding rings on the table. Mikhail takes the smaller one and looks at me, waiting. I raise my hand and watch as he slides the ring onto my finger without touching my skin. It seems like he deliberately avoided it. I take the big wedding ring from the box and raise it, but instead of offering his hand, he takes the ring from between my fingers and slides it onto his finger himself.
The officiant pronounces us a husband and wife, and motions toward the big open book lying on the table. There was no “you may kiss the bride” part, and I wonder if that was intentional or if he forgot, because the man seems strangely distressed, fidgeting with his hands, looking anywhere except at my husband.
Mikhail takes the pen, writes his name, and offers it to me. I look up and find him watching me like he’s expecting me to turn and bolt. Without breaking our locked gaze, I curve an eyebrow, then take the pen from his hand and sign my name. Bianca Orlov. It’s done.
I watch the crowd of people “attacking” the buffet tables, piling their plates with food and chatting loudly. Bianca is standing next to me, silently observing the room, and I have a feeling she’s not a fan of the crowds. We have that in common.
Roman approaches me, saying he’ll be leaving with Dimitri. He’s probably anxious to get back to his wife who stayed at home. I’m surprised he came to the wedding at all, considering how reluctant he is to let her leave his sight. He turns toward Bianca and introduces himself, offering his hand. When their palms connect, I’m consumed by a strange need to bat Roman's hand away from touching my wife.
“Do you want to leave?” I ask when Roman is out of sight.
Bianca looks over the crowd, raises her head to look at me and nods. I start toward the exit, motioning with my head to Kostya and the rest of our men. We are almost to the door when I feel Bianca’s hand touch my forearm, squeezing it lightly, and I tense for a split-second before willing my muscles to relax. She glances over at the table where her family is sitting as if she wants to say goodbye, so I turn and start walking in their direction.
The younger sister jumps up from the chair and rushes toward Bianca, embracing her around the waist and whispering something in her ear. Bianca takes a step back and starts signing with her hands. Making sure that nothing on my face shows recognition, I discretely watch her fingers form the words.
“We’re going. Everything is okay. I’ll message you in the morning and we’ll talk.”
“Dad will be mad if you leave so early,” her sister whispers.
“You can tell Father dearest to go to hell.”Bianca signs this slowly, like she wants to make sure her sister catches every word, then grabs her by the hand and turns the girl to me.
The poor thing gulps, but quickly collects herself and smiles. She doesn’t offer her hand, and I’m glad for that. When necessary, I have no problem with standard social interactions, like handshakes, but prefer to avoid them.
“I’m Milene. Nice to meet you, Mr. Orlov.”
It doesn’t escape my attention that Milene is the only one from her family who Bianca introduces personally. With the others, I only exchange curt nods, which isn’t that strange considering we were trying to kill each other not a month before.
Milene turns to say something to Bianca when a gunshot explodes through the room.
Barely a second after the sound of the first gunshot pierces the air, a strong arm grabs me around the waist. The next thing I know, I’m plastered to the floor next to Milene, with Mikhail bent over us, protecting us with his body from the line of fire.
“The service door. Stay low. Now!” he barks over the noise of people screaming and more gunshots.
I manage to untangle my legs from the train of the dress, scoop the fabric in one hand, and crab crawl as fast as I can behind Milene toward the door a few yards away. As soon as I make it into the narrow hallway, I lean back onto the wall and grab Milene in a tight embrace. She is shaking like a leaf, her breathing labored, and I am not far behind. I throw a look toward the door, expecting to find Mikhail there, but he’s not in the hallway with us.
There are two more quick bangs before the gunfire stops altogether, and the only thing I can hear are men yelling and women screaming. I wait a couple of seconds then go back toward the door and glimpse into the room. It’s chaos.
People are stampeding toward the double doors on the other side of the room, not paying attention to others around them. An older man, who I recognize as one of my father’s cousins, is laying in a puddle of blood, unmoving. Not far from him, a woman is sitting on the floor with two men kneeling on either side of her, one clutching her bleeding arm. More people around the room look hurt, either by the bullets or the stampede, but no one else looks dead or seriously wounded. Several men are walking around the room with their guns drawn, checking on the wounded. I recognize a few of them as the ones who came with Mikhail, but the rest are my father’s men.
Off to the side, near a wall, Mikhail is standing with a group gathered above the body of a waiter lying prone on the floor. I watch as Mikhail puts his gun in the holster hidden under his jacket and crouches next to the body. He unbuttons the dead man’s right sleeve and pulls it up, inspecting the forearm. My father goes to stand next to Mikhail. They discuss something for a few seconds, then Mikhail turns and heads toward me.
“Go to your father, Milene,” he says to my sister, then turns to me. “This way.”
He leads me down the long hallway and through the hotel’s laundry room, where the uniformed staff peek out from behind big service washing machines. We exit through a metal door and turn right toward the parking lot. It feels like I’m moving through a vacuum, not hearing anything and just barely aware of our surroundings. This is the first time I’ve witnessed gunfire outside of the shooting range, and I might be in shock.
Mikhail approaches a car and opens the passenger door for me. If someone asks me about the model, or even the color, of the car I get into, I wouldn’t be able to say. He calls someone during the drive, but the whole conversation is in Russian, so I have no idea what he says or with whom he speaks.
Shortly after he cuts the call, he parks in the underground garage of a tall modern building. Since I haven’t paid attention to where we were going, the only thing I know is that we’re somewhere downtown.
Mikhail opens the car door for me, and I follow him to the silver elevator and watch as he passes a keycard over the small display, then presses the button for the top floor. A short time later, the elevator doors open onto a small foyer with only one door directly ahead.
I take a deep breath. He brought me to his home. I don’t know why this fact hits me so hard. Of course he would take me to his place. It wasn’t like I expected him to drop me off at my father’s house, but still, it’s like I’m just now grasping the extent of how different my life will be from this point forward. I take another breath and enter Mikhail’s home.
“Living room, dining room, kitchen, guest bathroom.” Mikhail points around the huge open space lined with floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side. “The room I use as a gym. Lena’s room. My office.”
