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She’s young, I know that. I always forget how young.
But fuck, does she really mean that? She doesn’t know if she’d ever marry me?
The more I try to pull Sabrina closer, the more I push her away.
She’s my little tiger—wild and ferocious.
What do tigers want?
… To eat men alive.
How can I make her want what I want? How can I bring us into alignment?
I barely follow the ceremony, my head full of contradictory thoughts. What to do about Sabrina, what to do about Zakharov … how to salvage my business, how to keep us all alive …
The priest crowns the beaming couple, and they share their cup of wine.
Ilsa Markov stands next to her sister, wearing the silk sash of a witness over her pale-blue gown. Simon’s brother stands on the opposite side in the same position.
Nikolai and Nadia Markov and the two Severovs offer their children crystal glasses, which they smash with all their might on the tiles of the chapel floor. Everyone cheers at the hundreds of glittering fragments, each one representing a year of happy marriage to come.
The ceremony complete, we all proceed to the reception in the grand hall.
I introduce Sabrina to everyone who hasn’t met her yet. Her Russian has improved so much that I hardly have to translate for her anymore. She’s been studying late into the night. She works feverishly at every task, sometimes staying at the lab for fourteen hours in a row when she’s in the middle of a new formula. I never thought I’d meet someone more driven than me.
We chat with my parents. It was only a few hours’ journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow—much farther for Ivan and Sloane, who only arrived this morning after an all-night flight. You’d never guess it. Sloane looks sleek and elegant in her black gown, Ivan the dark shadow always beside her. He kept the beard and longer hair he grew in that Khazak prison cell, now carefully trimmed and groomed. It suits him.
My mother looks like Nefertiti in her gold gown, her hair cut in a blunt bob.
She hangs on my arm, happy to see me after several months’ absence.
“Do you feel at home yet?” she asks Sabrina.
“Bol'shuyu chast' vremeni,” Sabrina replies.Most of the time.
“Ochen' khoroshiy!”my mother cries, delightedly clapping her hands.Very good!“You’ve been practicing!”
“A little,” Sabrina says.
“A lot,” I correct her.
“Did I tell you my mother was Italian?” Lara says.
“No.” Sabrina looks at me, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“She was a Fratto from Sicily. My father was Armenian.”
“That explains why Adrik is so dark.”
My mother laughs. “His hair when he was born—I’d never seen anything like it. A full shock of jet-black hair, three inches long, sticking straight up off his head.”
Sabrina smiles. “So basically the same as now.”
“Yes, exactly.” My mother reaches up to ruffle my hair. I sigh and let her do it. It wasn’t going to lay flat anyway.
“Do you ever go back to Sicily?” Sabrina asks her.
She shakes her head, the smile fading from her face. “My mother died when I was young, my father shortly after Adrik was born. My brother, too. Dom is all I have. And the boys, of course.”
