46. Ariel
46
ARIEL
Things 1 and 2 are not pleased with Gina’s driving.
As she whips yet another hairpin turn way too fast, with complete disregard for the capabilities of this poor little rented Peugeot that’s been through hell and back, both babies start stomping their feet on my bladder.
“Gee! The brake is the one on the left! Goddammit!”
But she’s singing way too loudly to Italian pop radio to even hear what I’m saying. That’s confirmed when she whips around, hair flying like Medusa’s in the wind screeching through the open window, and flashes me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen from her.
“I know, right?!” she says. “It’s the best day ever!”
I cover my face. “Eyes on the road! Hands at ten and two! Ahhh!”
It’s hard to be too mad at her. Well, that’s not completely true—if we die in a fiery car crash on the way to get my wedding dress, I will in fact be pretty pissed in the afterlife.
But aside from the questionable driving, she really has been an absolute angel from the second she saw me coming down the stairs at breakfast with Sasha’s ring on my finger. She made me feel like the most special girl in the world when she damn near tackled me into the stairs, screaming with pure joy.
Everything’s been mostly a blur from there. Gee cried, Mama cried, Jasmine cried, Lora cried enough for all of us put together. Even Zoya shed one solitary tear. Then they all demanded a play-by-play down to the exact word, and then they all scolded Sasha for proposing to me when I had morning breath, and only after that did they all hug him and make him feel uncomfortable in the only way Sasha Ozerov ever feels uncomfortable: by expressing genuine emotions in his presence.
Okay, fine, he’s a work-in-progress.
But he’s my work-in-progress now. Officially.
Once the tears had been teared and the hugs had been hugged, they immediately launched into planning mode. I had a whole committee of wedding planners before my own sobbing had even eased up.
Item #1 on their agenda? Wedding dress shopping.
Thus the crazy car ride.
I’m squished between Jasmine and Mama in the backseat, trying to find a comfortable position for my massive belly. Every bump in the road makes the twins protest, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not today.
My fingers keep finding their way to Sasha’s ring. The gold is warm now from how much I’ve been touching it, twisting it, looking at it every chance I can get. His mother wore this ring. The mere thought makes my chest tight.
“You’re going to wear it smooth if you keep fondling it like that,” Jasmine teases, nudging my shoulder with hers.
I stick my tongue out at her. “Let me have this moment.”
“Oh, you’ll have plenty of moments,” Gina calls from the driver’s seat. She catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “And every single one is going to be better than that first disaster of an almost-wedding.”
“Gee…” I start, but she’s on a roll.
“I mean it! No stuffy Met gala this time. No Greek mobsters breathing down our necks, and sure as hell no arranged marriage bullshit.” She ticks off each point on her fingers, somehow still managing to navigate the winding road, albeit barely. “Just you, your hot Russian hunk, and everyone who actually loves you.”
Mama’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. When I look at her, there are tears in her eyes. “I never thought I’d get to do this,” she whispers. “Shopping for my baby’s wedding dress. With both my girls.”
“Mama, don’t,” I warn, feeling my own eyes start to well up. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then my makeup will run, and then?—”
“And then you’ll look exactly like you did that evening in the Met bathroom,” Gina interrupts cheerfully. “Which, by the way, is where this whole beautiful love story started. So maybe some running mascara would be appropriate.”
“That is not where the story started,” I protest, but I’m laughing too hard to elaborate.
The car hits another pothole and the twins kick in protest. I rub my belly, trying to soothe them. “Sorry, babies. Aunt Gina thinks she’s in Fast and Furious. ”
“Hey! I’m driving perfectly normally for Italy!”
“That’s what worries me,” Jasmine mutters, making Mama laugh.
The sound of all of us together—laughing, teasing, alive —fills the tiny car like sunshine. For so long, I thought I’d lost this. Lost them. But here we are, squeezed into a Peugeot that’s seen better days, heading to find the dress I’ll wear when I marry the man I love.
Not because anyone’s forcing us.
Just because we chose each other.
The village appears ahead—ochre walls draped in bougainvillea, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet. Gina parallel parks so badly that some poor driving instructor back in New York probably just woke up in a cold sweat with dubious guilt clawing at their stomach. A Vespa tumbles over after she kisses it with the bumper. She looks at it, shrugs, then looks at me.
“Alright, Ward.” She kills the engine, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Ground rules. No chiffon. No big, droopy veils that make you look like a discount nun. And if anyone mentions how ‘ivory symbolizes purity,’ I’m keying their car.”
Jasmine helps me unfold from the backseat, her grip firm under my elbow. “You realize she’s seven months pregnant with twins, yes? We’re aiming for ‘glowing fertility goddess,’ not ‘virginal blushing bride.’”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Can we not?—”
The little bell above the door chimes as we enter Atelier Sposa Maria. Compared to the glaring Mediterranean sun outside, the boutique’s interior feels cool and dim, like stepping into a secret garden made of tulle and lace instead of flowers.
Maria herself emerges from behind a rack of dresses, and her lined face breaks into a smile that makes me instantly feel at home. Her eyes drop to my belly, then light up like Christmas morning. “Ah, bellissima !” She claps her hands together. “ Due bambini ! What joy!”
Before I can respond, she’s already circling me like a friendly hurricane, muttering rapid-fire Italian mixed with the few English words she knows. Her hands flutter around me, measuring without touching, assessing angles and curves I didn’t even know I had.
Gina slings an arm around my shoulders. “What my friend needs is something that says, ‘I’m carrying the heir to a crime empire, but make it fashion.’”
“You come, come,” she insists, beckoning us deeper into her shop. “ Perfetto timing . The babies make you glow like Madonna.”
The boutique is nothing like I imagined when I used to daydream about dress shopping in New York. No stark white walls or intimidating mirrors. Completely devoid of rail-thin attendants giving judgmental side-eye to my expanding waistline. Instead, the space feels lived-in, loved. Vintage photographs cover the walls—brides from decades past, their joy preserved in sepia tones. Dried flowers hang from exposed wooden beams.
Maria disappears behind a heavy velvet curtain, still talking to herself in Italian. I catch maybe one word in twenty, but her enthusiasm needs no translation.
“This is perfect,” Mama whispers, squeezing my hand. Her eyes are already glistening again. She’s a leaky faucet today. It’s contagious.
Before I can agree, Maria bursts back through the curtain with an armful of ivory silk. “For you, for you! Special dresses for a special mama bride.”
She lays them out one by one on a worn chaise lounge, handling each gown like it’s made of spun sugar. These aren’t the restrictive meringues I feared—they’re fluid things, designed to celebrate my body, not constrain it.
“See?” Maria points out the clever panels and elegant draping. “We make you feel like a queen, not a penguin.”
I laugh. The fabric feels like water between my fingers. “They’re beautiful.”
“ Si, si ! Beauty for beauty!” She pats my cheek like a doting grandmother. “Now, we try. Show these bambini how Mama sparkles, no ?”
Looking around this cozy shop, at these perfectly imperfect dresses, at the women I love most gathered close, I feel tears threatening again.
But this time, they’re the good kind.
This is exactly how finding my wedding dress should feel. Not in some sterile Manhattan showroom, but here, in this little slice of Italian heaven, surrounded by love and history and the smell of dried roses.
As I start to try them on, everyone plays exactly the role I would’ve expected from them.
Lora on Dress #1: “Oh my gawd, you’re like a beautiful marshmallow!”
Mama on Dress #2: “Perhaps a bit… old-fashioned, sweetheart. But still gorgeous!”
Gina on Dress #3: “Your curves are curving, lady!”
I frown at Gee. “In a Dolly Parton kind of way, or are we talking more like the Michelin Man?”
Her lack of an answer tells me everything I need to know.
When I emerge from behind the velvet curtain in Dress #4, Gina immediately whips out her phone, circling me like a fashion photographer on speed. “Work it, girl! Give me angles! No, wait—that’s your bad side. Other way. Yesss, perfect!”
“Every side is my bad side right now,” I laugh, trying to twist despite my belly. “I’m the size of a planet.”
“Nonsense!” Lora is already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “You look like an angel. A glowing, pregnant angel.”
“You said that about the last two dresses,” Gina points out, not unkindly.
“Because they were all beautiful!” Lora sniffles harder.
Mama flutters around me, adjusting the fall of silk across my shoulders, smoothing invisible wrinkles. Her hands are gentle but insistent as she fusses with the train. “Maybe if we pinned this part here…” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I’m about to turn to look at my reflection—when I notice Jasmine.
She’s been quiet through the whole process, watching from her perch on the vintage settee. Unlike the others, she doesn’t rush to comment on each dress. She waits, observes, only speaking when she has something real to say.
But now…
Now, she’s staring at me with tears in her eyes.
“Jas?” I whisper.
She stands slowly, one hand pressed to her mouth. For a moment, I think she won’t speak at all. Then her voice comes out rough, like she’s fighting past something stuck in her throat.
“You look like Mama on her wedding day.”
The boutique goes silent. Even Gina lowers her phone.
Mama makes a small sound and reaches for Jasmine’s hand. “You remember those photos?”
Jasmine nods, wiping quickly at her eyes. “I used to sneak into your closet to look at them. You were so happy in that picture, Mama. And now…” She gestures at me, a watery grin breaking through. “Now, my baby sister’s wearing the exact same smile.”
I have to blink hard to keep from ruining my makeup. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Jasmine let her guard down like this, let herself feel something pure and uncomplicated.
“So,” Maria asks from somewhere behind me, “this is the one, si ?”
For the first time since I emerged in this one, I look at my reflection. It’s… everything. White as snow, flowing, simple. It cradles my baby bump without shame. It makes me feel like exactly who I want to be when I marry Sasha: strong, beautiful, and completely, gloriously free.
“Yes,” I decide. “This is the one.”
Once the seamstress has taken measurements, I settle onto the velvet couch, carefully arranging my regular clothes around my belly. Maria insists we can’t leave without celebrating properly, so she bustles around with a tray of delicate cookies dusted with powdered sugar and glasses filled with prosecco and sparkling water.
“For good luck!” she declares, pressing a crystal flute of bubbling water into my hands in place of the alcohol. “ Salute !”
Everyone raises their glasses. Mama and Lora are still wiping away tears, while Gina keeps sneaking glances at her phone, probably texting updates to Feliks.
I’m about to take a sip when Jasmine touches my arm. “Can we…?” She gestures toward a quiet corner near the window.
I follow her to two carved wooden chairs tucked between racks of veils and vintage accessories. Jasmine’s fingers twist in her lap. “What’s on your mind, Jas?”
She takes a deep breath. “I need to tell you something. About Sasha.”
My heart skips, but I stay deathly quiet.
“It’s okay. It’s not a bad thing. You don’t have to look terrified.” She laughs and cups my cheek in her warm palm before tucking her hands back in her lap. “When he helped me escape… he didn’t just save my life. He gave me a choice. Agency. The thing Dragan and Baba and everyone else tried to take away.” She looks down at her hands. “I was so angry for so long, Ari. At everyone who tried to control me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I was angry, too.”
“But Sasha…” Her voice catches. “The man who helped me wasn’t the cold monster everyone thought he was. He risked everything to help a terrified girl he barely knew.” Finally, she meets my eyes. “And watching him with you… he’s grown into someone even better. Someone worthy of my little sister’s heart.”
Tears blur my vision. “Jas…”
“I know what it’s like to be trapped in an arranged marriage to a monster,” she continues. “If I thought for one second that’s what was happening to you, I would have kidnapped you out of there myself. But this?” She gestures to my ring, my belly, my face glowing with happiness. “This is real. And you have my blessing, for whatever that’s worth.”
I grab her hand, squeezing tight. “It’s worth everything.”
The ride home is as chaotic as the first, but this time, I can’t stop smiling. ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” blasts through the tinny speakers.
“YOUNG AND SWEET, ONLY SEVENTEEN!” Gina belts out, completely off-key.
Jasmine joins in from my left, while Mama claps along from my right. Even Lora is swaying in the front passenger seat.
I close my eyes and let the warmth of the moment wash over me. The late afternoon sun paints the inside of my eyelids gold, like honey dripping, slow and sweet. My mother’s perfume mingles with the breeze coming through the open windows. The ring on my finger catches the light every time I move.
“Come on, Ari!” Gina calls over her shoulder. “You know you want to sing!”
And you know what? I do.
So I join in, not caring that my voice cracks on the high notes or that the twins are using my bladder as a dance floor. The five of us—sisters by blood and choice—screech our way through the chorus like teenagers at a slumber party.
“God,” I wheeze when the song finally ends, wiping tears from my eyes. “I never thought I’d have this.”
Jasmine squeezes my hand. “Have what?”
“This.” I gesture vaguely at all of them, all of this. “Family. Love. Choice.” My voice catches. “Freedom.”
Mama’s arms wrap around me from the side, and she presses a kiss to my temple. “You were always meant for this kind of happiness, baby. Even when you were small, your heart was too big for the cage they tried to put you in.”
The twins kick, as if agreeing with their grandmother. I spread my palm over the spot where Thing 1—definitely the more dramatic of the two—is showing off.
“Your babies are going to be so loved,” Lora sighs dreamily. “Like, the most loved babies ever.”
“The most spoiled babies ever,” Gina corrects, starting the car again. “Between all of us aunties, plus Zoya, plus whatever poor soul has to tell Sasha ‘no’ when he wants to buy them ponies…”
I laugh, but my heart swells at the thought. My children will never know what it’s like to feel trapped or afraid. They’ll grow up surrounded by fierce protectors, gentle teachers, and so much love it’ll overflow.
As we wind our way back toward the villa—toward home—Whitney Houston’s voice soars through the speakers, and we all join in again, singing about a love that lifts us up where we belong.