Chapter Twenty-Eight
In which Andrey is capable of a shocking level of sweetness.
Iris…
The last time I'd seen a commotion like this was when Rose knocked our ant farm off the dresser when we were five.
Andrey's new judicial clerks are racing back and forth, making adjustments, for the floral arrangements and the seating and obsessively checking the time and the weather. Jessica, who is now Andrey’s Chief of Staff, is going over talking points with him as the tailor who flew in from Italy to create his suit makes a couple of last-minute touches to the jacket.
We're in Andrey's new, official chambers in the State Supreme Court Building, and there's no mistaking the vibe. Power. Power so thick you could chew on it. Behind his desk is a huge wall of bookcases. There has to be over a hundred years’ worth of law books placed there, expensive, leather-bound tomes with fancy lettering, that are no longer even opened because everything's online.
But they make a statement, just like his desk, a long, sleek expanse of dark ironwood.
I am being kept out of the way in a seating area by the windows. There are gorgeous leather couches and a fireplace covered in Victorian tiles, along with a beautiful, heavily carved antique table that Andrey told me he had picked up in Morocco. While hiking the Atlas Mountains. Like you do.
Marlena, the head of the nominating committee comes in once to speak to him. She glances over at me. I smile politely. She nods once, and she leaves.
I knew the spouse was just an accessory at these things, I think, a little amused, but thank you for making it clear.
In the middle of all the furor, my husband radiates calm, answering questions from Jessica in a deep, confident voice.
It's hard to believe this is the same blood-soaked monster that chased me up onto our roof and fucked me against the pool last week.
A little shiver runs through me, and I cross my legs.
I can't be thinking thoughts like that now.
This is a serious day. Not one for my filthy, lascivious thoughts.
I'm wearing a decorous lavender silk dress that probably cost more than my tuition this year at Columbia. Jessica also flew in a designer from Spain earlier this week to hand-tailor my Balenciaga dress. Valeria had spent a lot of time praising me for my hourglass figure.
"Hourglass figures are not popular here," I'd said. "Americans are uptight and fear curves."
Valeria had rolled her eyes at me, her mouth stuffed full of pins, and I was terrified she'd sneeze and swallow one. "Very few people appreciate what they have," she lectures disapprovingly. "And Americans are the worst."
Andrey had paused in the doorway of our bedroom, smiling at me meaningfully as his dark gaze moved up and down my body.
Verdict: turned on.
It felt like a physical caress and I'd shivered. She grinned a little as she looked from him to me.
"Sometimes, there are those with enough good sense to truly appreciate what they have." She patted my hand.
My hair has been pulled up into a neat chignon, my makeup is tasteful and understated. I know this because the makeup artist who pinned me to the chair and applied it told me so.
When the door opens again, I'm ready to screech in relief. This time it's Rose and Nikandr. "We're the only family representatives that they allowed to come back here," Rose says, hugging me.
"Yes, everyone else is out on the green.
" Nikandr adds. "Mixing and mingling, enduring conversations with the kind of people you usually hide from when they attempt to corner you anywhere else.
" He and Rose share a grin. "Though, in the case of Uncle Maksim and Dmitri, they're scaring the living shit out of the other guests. "
We all chortle a little because watching those two terrify some unfortunate soul is more entertaining than the World Cup, The Super Bowl, and Love Island USA combined.
"Tell me more!" I whisper.
"Well, you know that creepy senator that walked up to us at Saks Fifth Avenue?" she asks.
Nikandr eyes us both. "Are you speaking of Carlisle Sinclair?"
My nose wrinkles. "Unfortunately, yes."
"Well, he’s walking over to Dmitri and Maksim. They were deep in conversation about something, probably like nerve gas or whatever. You know how they are," she says.
Jessica's shoulders stiffen, and she turns her head, glaring at us. "Voice down!" I whisper.
"So," Rose continues. "This pompous prick is striding masterfully toward them, ready to shake hands and do whatever the hell it is these rich and powerful guys do when they're talking to other rich and powerful guys.
Anyway-" She takes a deep breath. "They both turn and look at him.
And it was like... a glacier collapsing and burying you under fifty tons of ice.
Not a flicker of expression on their face.
They both have those creepy blue eyes, you know, when they get really mean, and they go all pale? "
I shudder. "Oh, yeah. I never want them to look at me like that."
"You really don't," Nikandr says. "It's happened to me twice in my lifetime, and that is plenty.
So, that's why I saw Sinclair at the bar ordering a double before the bartenders had set up.
He's used to everyone kissing his ass. That must have been painful.
By the way, you will have to spend some time with Dasha soon.
She was crushed that she couldn't come back and see you. "
"Oh, that's terrible!"
"Right?" Rose agrees. "There's nothing more tragic than a disappointed Dasha."
"You both might adore her," Nikandr says, "but after her graduation, between all of the booze and pretty Instagram boys, our parents decided she needed a time out. They sent her to one of those 'I don't know what I want to do with my life yet' boarding schools in Florence for the summer."
Rose frowns. "What's wrong with booze and pretty Instagram boys?"
Nikandr sighs heavily.
"Well, after The Coronation we can catch up," I say, smoothing and re-smoothing my dress.
Nikandr chuckles. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Some people are calling it a swearing in," I say primly. "I am calling it what it is. The Coronation. Look at your brother." We all turn toward my husband.
Andrey is magnificent.
The tailor has done his work, and he's standing over to the side with a hand over his mouth, as if he's never seen anything more beautiful than my husband.
Andrey's terrified little aides and clerks are scuttling back and forth, and Jessica is...
not even remotely impressed, still going over talking points with him.
"Yeah, this is a coronation," I laugh.
"He does look rather kingly, doesn't he?" Nikandr says, smiling fondly. "Do you know your role in this?"
"Of course," I say grimly. "Trust me. Jessica has been very, very thorough with her instructions. Andrey woke me up when I was sleepwalking last night. He said I was standing there, hands out like I was holding a Bible."
"Well, this should be fun," Nikandr stands up, buttoning his suit jacket. "I'm going to go talk to my brother for a minute. And then I have to get back out there to shake hands and charm the hell out of another fifty or sixty millionaires."
"Have fun," I say cheerfully, waving at him.
He walks over to Andrey and Jessica steps aside, tactfully, as they speak.
I don't know what Nikandr says, but a beautiful smile crosses Andrey's face, glowing, like a sunrise.
Shockingly, they hug each other. Rose and I watch this unprecedented moment of brotherly love with our mouths hanging open and a poorly disguised look of shock.
"Holy shit, did you see that?" she whispers. "It was like your husband loves Nikandr or something."
"Andrey does love people," I whisper back. "I don't think it's in the same way that we do, but Andrey takes care of the people that are important to him."
Again, the image of my bloody, mostly naked husband coming home from a busy night of dispensing a different kind of justice rises up with utter clarity, and that certainly brushes away all this sentimentality.
Andrey would disapprove of it anyway.
Rose lays her head on my shoulder. "I'm torn between giving you shit for saying such a poetic thing, or feeling really happy because it seems like you two have found your way. Like you get him."
A few minutes later, everyone is abruptly escorted out of the office by an implacable Jessica, including Rose, who gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Andrey strolls over. "How do I look?"
"Honestly? Like a Greek god.” His dark blue suit fits him perfectly, paired with a white dress shirt, and a blue silk tie. "Are those your lucky cufflinks?" I hold up his wrist to get a better look at the black diamond set. “Didn't your folks give these to you?"
"Yes, when I graduated from Harvard Law School," he says, straightening his tie, which wasn’t crooked.
"And now, you wear them every time you go into court. Some people might consider that sentimental," I grin, touching his sleeve. "How do you feel?"
He arches a brow. "Prepared." He is so matter of fact about it all.
"Of course you do," I laugh. "The majestic Andrey Morozov. Fear is nothing," His big, rough hand cups my cheek, his thumb running over my cheekbone as I stare up at him, a little shocked.
"There's things I fear," he says, his gaze holds mine. "Not being the son my parents expect, the leader that the Bratva demands. And now this new, greater fear of not being what you need."
It's a long moment.
I finally whisper, "Don't make me cry. The makeup artist will gut me like a trout if I mess up my mascara."
Both of his hands cup my face carefully and he gifts me with a real smile. The light slides over his face through the half-drawn blinds, and for a moment, I can see myself reflected in his black irises.
I look like someone in love.
I whispered it to him last night, when he was asleep. My cowardly confession because I didn’t know if I could say it when he was conscious.
As he leans down, he murmurs, "Will I ruin your makeup if I kiss you?"
"No," I grin, a little giddy. "She used the non-smear stuff."
Andrey's thick chest moves slightly in what I've come to recognize is a chuckle as he puts his mouth against mine. "Every kiss with you is dangerous,” he whispers to me. "If I indulged myself in your lips whenever I wanted to, I'd fall into you and never come back out."
Oh, holy shit. I am not prepared for something of this magnitude.
"That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me," I say, a little shaky. "Even more beautiful than when they told me it was Free Pie Night at Millie and Steve's."
He draws back and lifts one brow. "Was it? I am only telling the truth."
Only the truth, says my husband. He doesn't understand that it's more than his truth. It's everything to me, that it's possible this marriage could be something more than convenience and optics.
"C'mon." I take his hand, blinking back a few irritating tears. "Let's go make you the Supreme Chief Justice."
"That's not a correct term," he says.
"It is now, Your Honor."