52. Alexei
Alexei
The Bellinis have decorated the church in rich autumnal hues, with the same deep dahlias, dusky roses, and burnt-orange ranunculus as the bridal bouquet, which, in the Russian tradition, I’m holding until Ofelia’s arrival.
I know the flower names because Benny spent days insisting I learn them as he bombarded me with choices.
Speaking of the little prick, I think, looking around, where the fuck is he?
It’s one thing having him incommunicado for a few hours, but I haven’t laid eyes on him all day, and if there’s one thing I know about Benny, it’s that he’s not one to miss a party.
I get an uneasy feeling. “Mickey.” I lean in close. “Is something going on? I haven’t heard a fucking peep from Benny, and the prick isn’t answering his phone.”
“No?” Mickey looks entirely unconcerned. “I spoke to him an hour ago, something about the flowers for Ofelia’s hair.” He gives me a shit-stirring look. “I know you miss him holding your hand, but he probably figured that you’re big and ugly enough to manage without him.”
“Christ,” I mutter, giving him a dirty look. “I really need to limit the amount of time you spend with Dima.”
We’re standing on the steps outside the church, because in the Russian Orthodox tradition, the bride and groom enter the church together, while the congregation follows them inside. Most of the guests haven’t arrived yet, so there are just a few Bellinis milling on the street below.
Papa arrives with Rosa on his arm, leaves her with Darya and Abby, then joins me on the steps.
I hug him briefly. “Thank you for doing this, Papa.”
“Of course.” He gives me an enigmatic smile, but I don’t have time to interpret it, because in the sudden explosion that seems typical of Sicily, one minute the street is relatively empty, and the next it’s overflowing with colorful, loud, embracing Bellinis and bemused-looking Russians.
A rather stressed Dimitry wrangles a pack of squirming boys, stacking them between him and his father, Abby, and the nannies, with grim instructions to stay quiet or else.
Zinaida, looking typically stunning in emerald green, holds her sleeping baby in her arms. Luke gives me a cheerful wave without taking his arm from around them both.
Seline hovers at the rear, smiling tentatively when I catch her eye.
“Christ,” Mickey mutters from close by. “Nobody warned me the witch was coming.”
“I doubt she’s going to curse you for murdering her brother,” I murmur back. “She hated the bastard.”
“Boys.” Sergei gives us both a remonstrative look. “We’re about to enter the church.”
Mickey and I fall obediently quiet.
A black limousine moves slowly down the road.
The crowd parts to let it through, while fascinated bystanders remove their hats and bow their heads respectfully from behind the protective barriers erected by the Bellini security, the old women shouting blessings and kissing their fingers toward the car.
The limousine pulls to a halt in front of the church. Roman gets out, then leans forward to help his daughter.
Then Ofelia steps out on her father’s arm, and neither the crowd nor Roman matters at all, because just like that, I’m in the middle of a dream I never imagined could come true.
Her face is shadowed from the early-afternoon sun beneath the floor-length lace veil, but even through it I can see her soft smile, the deep, sparkling blue color her eyes become only when she’s truly happy.
Roman helps her slowly up the stairs until she stands before me. He lifts her veil, then presses her right hand gently before placing it in mine.
“Beregi eyo,” he says simply, his voice low and slightly rough with emotion. Treasure her.
I briefly meet his eyes. “Zhyznyu otvechayu.” On my life.
Nodding, he steps away.
I stare at Ofelia’s beautiful face, drinking in her open joy like a man dying of thirst. “Are you ready, angel?”
She nods, smiling with such blazing brilliance it takes my breath away.
Papa glances at me, still with that same enigmatic smile, and opens the doors.
We step inside the church.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light and find the priest, standing beside the analoi table at the center of the nave.
Then I see the two figures beside him, and my footsteps falter, my heart stopping completely. Ofelia’s hand tightens on mine, and I know she’s whispering some kind of reassurance, but I can’t hear anything except the slow, dull thud of my own heart as it starts again.
I walk through the silent church with her hand in mine like I’m sleepwalking, unable to truly believe what I’m seeing until I’m standing close enough to touch the long, lean figure in the wheelchair by the table, dressed in a tux that matches my own.
I stop, staring down at him in stunned disbelief.
“What, motherfucker?” It’s Lars who eventually speaks, his voice a hoarse rasp through the silence. “Did you honestly think I’d let you get married without me?”
Afterward, I will barely remember the details of the ceremony.
But I will always remember how long I held Lars’s lean body close to mine before it began.
His whispered “I love you, brother.”
The tears running unabashedly from Ofelia’s eyes when I finally stood again, and the mingled laughter and sobs from the congregation behind us when my father handed me his handkerchief to wipe both her tears and my own away.
The benevolent smile of the priest, despite Lars’s characteristically irreverent greeting, as he gave us his blessing and a candle each to symbolize God’s light, which I had never truly felt in my heart until seeing Lars come back to life.
I will remember, always, bending down so Lars could exchange our rings three times, Benny gently guiding his hand when it seemed he might falter.
And I will recall until my dying breath the luminous joy in Ofelia’s eyes as the priest wrapped the silken cord about our joined hands, bonding us forever.
I vaguely remember the congregation sighing as the priest, in a rare exception to tradition, allowed us both to kneel before Lars at the climax of the ceremony.
The way Papa lifted the heavy crowns on Lars’s behalf, Benny helping Lars touch first one, then the other as Papa placed them on our heads.
But above all, I know I will never forget Papa’s murmured words to my best friend, when his hands touched Lars’s own around the crowns: “Rodnoy moy . . . Khrabryy moy synok.”
My own blood . . . My brave son.
And I will remember that it’s the only time in my life that I’ve ever seen Lars cry.