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Oh, man.
“Let’s go. Now.”
* * *
After a half hour of tearful goodbyes, Alessia and Maxim are ready to leave. He drapes her coat over her shoulders as they make their way out of the tent.
There’s a chill outside—the ground sparkles with an early frost—as the waxing moon casts a glimmering path across the lake.
Alessia turns and throws her bouquet at the waiting crowd. It’s caught by Agnesa, who jumps up and down in excitement, waving her prize above her head.
The guns begin; Alessia’s cousins and uncles fire their pistols in the air, and at the same time, the women shower them with rice.
“Fuck!” shouts Maxim, ducking and clutching Alessia. He looks wildly around at her crazy compatriots.
“It’s tradition,” Alessia shouts above the noise.
“Hell! Tom!” Maxim says, but Tom is standing calmly next to Joe, watching her relatives with their weapons and shaking his head.
* * *
We hurry up the drive, away from the volley of shots.
How the fuck is gunfire at a wedding a good idea?
The Mercedes C class is waiting, and our driver, one of Alessia’s cousins, opens the passenger door. Alessia turns and gives the throng one last wave before climbing in. I dash around to the other side and clamber in beside her.
“You don’t like the guns,” he says.
“No! I don’t!”
“Welcome to Albania!” He laughs, then puts his foot down and speeds away from the revelry, the gunfire, and the best wedding a man could have hoped for, given the circumstances and the fact that it was organized within a week.
I take Alessia’s hand. “Thank you for becoming my wife, Alessia Demachi-Trevelyan.”
* * *
Alessia’s eyes shine with unshed tears, and her heart, chest… her soul is suddenly too full. “Maxim,” she whispers but her voice cracks as she’s overcome with emotion. She turns and stares blankly out of the window over the dark waters of the Drin as they cross the bridge that will take them away from Kukës to a new life. A life with the man she loves with her very being. After all that he has given her, and all he’s done for her, she only hopes she’s enough for him.
“Hey,” he whispers.
And she turns to see his eyes shining in the darkness.
“I’ve got you. You’ve got me. We’ve got this. It’s going to be great,” he says.
And Alessia’s tears of joy slide down her cheeks, letting some of her emotion out into the world.
Chapter Eight
A manager shows us into the presidential suite at The Plaza in Tirana, which I’ve booked for two nights. Alessia eyes the massive vase of white roses that greets us in the small foyer. “Uau!” she whispers. I squeeze her hand, and the porter deposits our bags in what I assume is our bedroom. He returns to the foyer, I hand him some lek as a tip, and he scurries out.
“Can I offer you assistance with the facilities?” the manager asks in accented English.
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” With a practiced smile, I give him several notes, hoping he’ll leave. With a nod of gratitude, he exits, leaving Alessia and me alone for the first time in forever.
“Here. Come. Let me show you.” I stayed here with Tom when we first arrived in Albania—what feels like a lifetime ago—and I know what I want to show Alessia first. Taking her hand once more, I guide her into the drawing room, which has two seating areas, a dining area, and floor-to-ceiling windows. On one of the coffee tables, I spy a bottle of champagne in an elaborate ice bucket, with chocolate-dipped strawberries artfully arranged on a dish. But that’s not what I want to her to see. Over at the window, I draw back the nets, revealing the city illuminated in all its glory at our feet.
“Uau!” she says again.
“Your capital city. It’s quite stunning from the twenty-second floor.”
* * *
Alessia drinks in the view. It’s a patchwork of light and shade and darkness—tall buildings and small—and lit-up streets like threads woven through the patchwork flowing toward the distant mountains. She recalls telling Maxim she’d never visited Tirana—and here he is, making her dreams come true.
In so many ways.
“The dark over there.” Maxim points with his chin as he stands beside her. “That’s Skanderbeg Square. The National History Museum is beside it. We’ll go tomorrow if you want.” He turns, flashes her a quick smile, and fetches the champagne from the cooler. “Would you like a glass?”
“Yes. Please.”
Alessia notes that it has a copper top—it’s the Laurent-Perrier rosé, the first champagne she ever drank, not so long ago, in the bathroom at the Hideout. Maxim’s smile widens as if reading her thoughts, and his fingers make deft work of removing the cage and cork with a satisfying pop. He fills their flutes with pink, bubbling champagne and hands her a glass.
