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“Did your father lay a hand on you?”
Lachlan O’Rourke is rumored to be insane, and I worry he’s reckless enough to gun downthe pakhan. Maksim and hisbratokswill shoot back and kill Lachlan. That makes me want to vomit, the idea of him dead. Because of me.
“No.” I lower the veil, not bothering to tell him it was my soon-to-be husband who beat me senseless when I caught him with his mistress. Lachlan probably thinks the same as other powerful men, that I’m a piece of property and nothing more. “I’m fine.”
Papa finally notices Lachlan hovering over me and rushes to my side. With a sneering once-over, he hisses, “Back off, enforcer. I do not know what your driver is pulling here, hitting my car.”
With another man awash in thick, rumpled, auburn hair at his back, Lachlan, rasps, “Do youwantto get married, Katriane? Who bruised your face?”
“Her name is Katya. And bruises, what bruises?” Papa asks, pulling me close enough to feel the gun in his jacket. “You have no idea what you are talking about, enforcer. Go back to whatever hole you live in. Griffin Quinlan, control your boss.”
“No one controls me,” Lachlan drawls. “Not even you, pakhan.”
With Maksim guarding Papa, I’m shoved back into the sweltering car. Papa follows, complaining about the damage to his precious metal rear bumper as we drive away.
“This is your fault,” he yells at his driver. “You should have just run through the barriers. I ampakhan!No one tells me where I can and cannot go.”
“Yes, sir.”
The church spire comes into view, and my stomach violently flips. I wonder if I threw up all over this ugly gown would Papa still make me get married in it? Pride has me controlling my body. Another part of ballerina training. Ignore pain. Ignore illness. Perform. Look beautiful. Don’t complain. But that control is in service to get what I want. Which is to be on stage, dancing. Right now, all I want is to get out of this situation in one piece. Rahil beat me under my father’s roof. I can only imagine what he’ll do to me in Russia.
Not happening.
Damn, what if I’d told Lachlan Iwasn’tall right? He’d lose it and start shooting. I heard Maksim sent his men to kill Lachlan’s brother, the Irish Underboss, months ago. All members of my father’s Bratva are unhinged these days. I can’t live with someone’s death on my conscience.
We arrive in front of the church, and I tune everything out, turning robotic.
Papa helps me out, smiling for anyone watching. There are no cameras, though. Nadia, who rode with Maksim, snakes up to my side with a reassuring smile. I am a pawn in her game, too. I am the distraction she and Rahil need, so they can continue their love affair and have their babies. She won’t help me in Russia.
Papa enters the church and grumbles at the vacant pews. “No one comes to see the pakhan’s daughter marry?”
I want to answer:Oh, you mean the daughter you made sure everyone knew you didn’t care about all these years?Or the near-empty church is from my father’s violent missteps since Stasia disappeared. Those tirades stripped him of the respect he once had in this city.
“The roads are barricaded all over Astoria, pakhan,” Maksim placates him. “The fair.”
Something tickles my brain. The driver said the same thing about the roads. I may have taken a blow to the head, but I recall the annual street fair isn’t in town until next week. I remember, because I love the fresh crepes from the French chef’s truck every year.
Who put those barricades up?
Did Lachlan cut off my driver?
Those insanity rumors might be true.
“When…when do I sign the marriage license?” I ask, my breath going shallow, a sense of doom settling in.
“After the ceremony,” Maksim answers for Papa. “The priest needs to sign it.” With Grigori Laskin exiled to Siberia, Maksim has barely left Papa’s side.
The slow drone of organ music fades, and the haunting, opening notes toHere Comes the Bridestart. Nadia gives me another assuring nod over her shoulder and steps down the aisle, holding a bundle of calla lilies. Papa grabs my arm instead of me taking his. I fist my bouquet of blood-red roses with both hands, palm sweat soaking the satin-wrapped stems. I feel like I’m being dragged, but I don’t care.
I get to the altar, but it’s as if I’m not there. Rahil’s eyes are on Nadia, not his bride. The priest says something, but it’s all white noise. I jump when Papa wrenches my right hand from holding the bouquet and places it in Rahil’s.
“Disgusting sweaty palms,” he barks and roughly wipes his left hand on his suit.
“I sweat a lot,” I murmur.
He leans toward me and hisses with awful breath, “Moscow gets ice-cold for many months, especially if there is no heat.”
“No problem.” I roll my eyes.
