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I take one last look at my bruised cheek, swollen eye, and split lip, wondering what my father will say when he sees me. My stomach twists, thinking he won’t care. He’s that far gone.
The wedding gown Papa picked out is nothing short of a monstrosity. The glittering ballgown weighs at least twenty pounds from all the beads, and has long, sheer sleeves to cover my arms. It’s July, and I feel like I’ve been shoved into an oven. I’m so itchy, and my body is sweating profusely underneath.
I don’t care, really. These discomforts are the least of my worry.
Nadia, who proclaimed herself my maid of honor to get on the property to help with my makeup and dress me, lowers my veil. The tulle is stiff and thick with appliques. It’s hard to see through and having use of only one eye isn’t helping.
Nadia steadies me down the stairs where Papa waits in what looks like the same white suit he wore the day my mother brought me here at age twelve. A wild feeling of déjà vu hits me, and I question if the last eight years really happened.
“You look beautiful, Katya,” he says with a taut jaw and signals one of his many henchmen to open the front door.
“My name is Katriane,” I mumble.
“You are going to be the Mayor of Moscow’s wife. I suggest you go by Katya if you want any respect from Russian citizens.”
I don’t plan for this to get that far. But unless a miracle or the apocalypse happens, I’ll be married in less than an hour. I’m sure someone can help me dissolve that. Even if I make it to Moscow, I doubt Rahil will want to consummate the marriage.
My throat tightens, thinking of that vile man on top of me. Taking my virginity. He doesn’t deserve my special gift. My virtue.
I ride next to Papa in his vintage white Rolls Royce, on our way to St. Agatha’s. Papa never converted me to Russian Orthodox, so I cannot marry in his church. He doesn’t talk to me. A caring father should prepare his virgin daughter for what to expect on her wedding night. My mother isn’t here, my sister is missing, and Maya never warmed up to me the way Yulia had. Perhaps Papa knows Rahil has no plans to bed me.
I glance over and see he’s texting someone!
My heart ticks up when I realize the driver has wandered onto a back road in Astoria. “Where are we?” I ask.
“There was a barricade on Mayfair Street. A cop directed me to this road,” Papa’s driver answers freely.
“Just get there,” Papa hisses. “They cannot start without the bride.”
I let go of a ragged breath and lean back on the sticky leather seat, but shoot forward when we’re rammed from behind.
My bouquet goes flying as I use both hands to stop my throbbing face from smashing into the front driver’s seat. The car is so old, there aren’t seatbelts in the back.
“Chyort!What in the fuck’s sake?” Papa spats and wrenches around. With a hand tucked inside his jacket because—of course, he brought a weapon to my wedding—he gets out.
Maksim, who escorted the Rolls Royce with Papa’s Town Car, also gets out, a team of skinny, frightened-lookingbratoksfollowing him.
Behind us, the doors of a black Mercedes with tinted windows swing open, and four men dressed in black hop out. Towering above everyone is…Lachlan O’Rourke.
I push out of the car and realize no one is guarding me. Or even paying attention to me.
Story of my life.
I can make a run for it.
With so many people surrounding the cars and the drivers arguing, Lachlan approaches me.
“Katriane?” His deep, velvety voice strokes my soul. “Are you all right?”
My chest pounding, my thoughts fly into a whirl that he called me by my real name. He remembered. He paid attention to me last week. I feel an intimacy between us, even with so many dangerous people close by. Unable to breathe, I lift my veil.
“Hello, Lachlan.”
Seeing my bruises, the enforcer’s eyes narrow into frightening beady slits. “Whofuckingdid this to you?” He reaches for his gun.
The humidity in the car must have melted Nadia’s attempt to cover my bruises. Even though we painted over my discolored skin, I can still feel my swollen cheek and jaw, not to mention my split lip.
I see the depth of Lachlan’s concern while his terrifying, obsidian eyes pierce Papa with a coldness I can feel. “It’s nothing.”
