Chapter Sixteen
In which we hear the worst proposal in history. Nikandr is not a romantic.
Caroline…
Nikandr sits there in his expensively tailored suit, his hair is perfect, and his smile is dark. Just lounging, like a Dark Lord from Hell, waiting to drag me kicking and screaming down to the underworld.
"You must be joking," I say crispy, trying to stifle that agitated little voice. The one that's telling me that I am so fucked.
"Sadly not," he says, his words just as sharp and precise.
"Believe me, it wouldn't be my wish. It is unfortunate that you happened to be there in the lobby when I was taken by Agapov's men.
Regardless, this is where we are. A registrar from the Zapis Aktov Grazhdanskogo Sostoyaniya office will be here in an hour.
We will say the vows. They will be backdated to forty-eight ago. He will file them.
"Given Russian bureaucracy, no one would have expected a marriage certificate to show up for a few more days. We will appear to be married-"
"Appear?" I ask suspiciously.
"For the duration of this misunderstanding," he says patiently, "we are married legally, muzh i zhena, husband and wife. We live together. You will wear a ring. Once this confusion has passed, and everyone has moved on to an exciting new scandal, we will quietly have an annulment."
I'm watching him carefully. He's speaking very straightforwardly, his gaze intent on mine, but there's something that feels off.
I'm good at spotting a lie, and while there's nothing that he's saying specifically that seems to be untrue, there's some piece that's not added in here that should be. But goddamnit, I don't know what it is.
"I don't have anything to wear," I admit. "Just suits. And that dress that-" The dress that he ripped off me in the elevator, I was going to say. I'm not bringing that up. "This was supposed to be a working trip. Are there going to be pictures?"
"Of course," he says. He's watching me, waiting for something. What? That I'll melt down, screaming, throwing breakable objects at him and howling, "I'll never marry you!"
I'm not going to do that. Not right now, anyway.
"I've ordered dresses for you," he says. "Understated. Something that an eager bride might pull out of her suitcase on a whirlwind trip to Moscow. We'll sign our backdated paperwork, smile for a picture or two. You told Agapov that we were married here at the hotel, the pictures will make sense."
"We are doing all of this for a crazy guy who kidnapped you to talk business?" I ask. "This is an awfully long walk just to appease a few egos here."
"The Bratva has been embedded in Russia for a hundred years," he says, a wry twist to his mouth.
"Crime families have been operating for dozens of centuries more.
Set in their ways, filled with ceremony and expectation and above all, overweening pride.
" He looks exhausted, rubbing the back of his neck and I wonder if he's gotten any sleep.
"I– I need to talk to Liria," I blurt. "She's- I have to talk to her first."
He watches me for a moment, relaxed and seated in the armchair like it's a throne. The room is still with his silence, almost oppressive. I can faintly hear the traffic from outside.
"I know you didn't ask for this," Nikandr finally says. "Believe me, it is not what I desired either."
Thank you for reminding me how much you despise me, you asshole.
"But we are Bratva - including you by association - and this is where we are.
Feel free to speak with Liria, just be ready by 10 am.
" He checks his watch, a shiny steel one, and rises.
"I'll have the dresses brought up in ten minutes.
" And then he's gone, his head tipping slightly at the threshold like he's used to doorways meant for normal people and not for tattooed giants like him.
Liria doesn't answer.
I stare at my phone, frustrated and trying to calculate what time it is in New York. Didn't she have performances this week? She might be over one of the sisters-in-law and hasn't checked her phone. I leave a message.
Then, because I really don't know what else to do. I go in and take a shower.
There's a discreet knock on the door. "Caroline Basha, may I come in?"
Opening the door, I find Vasilisa holding my makeup case in one hand and a garment bag in the other. My luggage is set tidily next to her.
I open the door wider so that she can step in. "Did Nikandr send you because you are the only other life form with ovaries in this crowd?"
"Da," she agrees drily. "So, we can share the joy of the most exciting moment of a woman's life."
There's a second or two as we stare at each other before we both howl with laughter.
"Thank you, I needed that," I wheeze, holding my stomach.
"Come, take a look at the dresses," she says, all business again. "I selected them myself. You should have seen the ridiculous outfits the personal shopper sent over." Her perfectly shaped nose wrinkles as if someone just waved a dirty diaper under it. "Pastels."
"Oh, really?" I ask, "Lilac probably, or peach." I shudder.
"You are correct," she says. "I thought you might like this one.
" She pulls a dress out of the bag, a beautiful cream silk one, sleeveless, cut just above the knee with a slight slit up the right thigh.
A dress you might wear for a fun night out.
I hold it up, eyeing it carefully. The neck is low, but not too low.
There are even heels to go with it, nude-colored ones with the distinctive red sole.
"Thank you, this will work," I say gratefully.
"Why don't you change?" Vasilisa suggests. "I will not giggle or exchange confidences but I can zip you up."
"That's fair," I agree.
I only have my diamond stud earrings that my mother gave me before she passed away. They will have to do. I leave my hair down, and do simple makeup, swoopy eyeliner and mascara, pale pink lipstick.
"You look lovely," she says, eyeing me in a way that makes me think she bats for our side.
I want to ask her about Nikandr. If he's really the bastard I think he is. If he's going to be a completely crap husband. I also know she is a consummate professional and would rather stab me than offer any sensitive information.
"Thank you, Vasilisa," I say. "Your no-nonsense energy was just what I needed."
"Always happy to help in a way that is completely indifferent to your situation," she nods, opening the door.
Taking a deep breath, I walk out into the enormous living room.
Of course, Nikandr had to have the biggest and most stately suite in the hotel.
Along with four magnificent bedrooms, the main room extends out to the tower section of the building, with a 360-degree view of Moscow.
On the balcony, there's an infinity pool flowing out to the city skyline, surrounded by graceful statues and pots of flowers.
Alexsey and Nikandr are sitting on the couches grouped in a corner of the room, going over some papers together.
They're seated in front of a bank of windows, enormous Gothic style ones, adorned with stained glass in intricate patterns.
Their heads bent, quietly discussing something about counterfeits, the only word I could catch.
Alexsey looks up with a warm smile. "What a beautiful bride!" He heads over, letting me slap him on the chest as hard as I can, which essentially hurt my hand and did nothing to him. "What?" he inquires solicitously. "Too soon to bring up the 'B word?"
"Not unless the word is bully. Can we talk?" I ask sharply.
Nikandr rises with a sigh. "I have a couple of details to attend to," he says. "I'll give you some space."
As soon as the door shuts, I pounce on Alexsey. "What the actual fuck is happening here?" The words tumble out in a hiss. "I'm getting married because we might've hurt the Moscow Six's feelings?"
He smiles at me with some sympathy, making me sit down at the dining table and handing me a plate with a raspberry pirozhki.
The long table is covered with snacks. There's a lovely tea service with an elaborate samovar, and platters of cream cheese blinis, vatrushka, and an entire medovik, honey cake with a dozen delicate layers brushed with condensed milk frosting.
"I couldn't find any Cheetos on such short notice," he says apologetically.
"That's so thoughtful, but I can't," I say, eyeing the pastry longingly, like it's my lover returning home from the war. "That's gonna get all over my dress. I'll save it for later."
"I'll have them send you a fresh batch after the ceremony," he says sympathetically, taking the plate back. "Did you talk to Liria?"
"I couldn't reach her," I admit, slumping back in my chair.
"She might already be at the symphony hall," he says. "You know how she likes to focus." Alexsey sits next to me, eyeing my shell-shocked expression kindly. "Ask me whatever you want."
"Is this shit for real?" I say bluntly. "Do I really have to do this?"
"Yes," he says simply.
"But- but-" My hands wave around like I'm conducting the 'Oh, man I'm so screwed' symphony. "It's just for a while, right? I mean, this isn't a real marriage."
He winces slightly, rubbing his jaw. "It is a real marriage," Caroline," he says cautiously. "You will be legally married. It will be viewed as valid in America as well as here."
"I don't have to stay married, though?" I ask, hoping for a light at the end of this tunnel, and not the light on an oncoming locomotive, which is what this is beginning to feel like.
"That's between you and Nikandr."
I lean back, tapping my fingers on the arm of my chair, staring at him.
The cool bastard stares right back, not moving a muscle.
No uncomfortable adjustment of his chair, or shift of his gaze.
The staring match continues until my eyes burn.
"You're really saying I have to go through with this? " I ask.
He gives a shrug that is so very Slavic. It's a vibe that seems to take over these Morozovs once they hit the home country. Like the more formal language and the slight tinge of a Russian accent.
For a moment, Alexsey seems like a stranger. "Yes."
"Well, shit," I say despondently.
"Go fix your lipstick and try not to look like I just murdered your puppy." He’s all business now, the asshole. "The registrar should be here in a few minutes."
The tube of lipstick is in my hand, forgotten as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Nikandr…" My lips twist like I just ate a lemon. "Why does it have to be him?"
He dates models. Sleek, willowy models with fabulous bone structure who are giddy that he'd chosen them. We had one drunken sexfest in an elevator, and as predicted, I did hate both myself and him the next morning.
And I'm not sleek or willowy. I'm sturdy.
"Fuck it," I tell my reflection. "Let's get this over with."
I straighten my dress, hitching up the front a little so the girls aren't quite as on display, and head back out. The registrar is a nice, older man with black-rimmed glasses, dressed in a brown suit.
Nikandr reaches out one big paw to me and I eye him for a moment before taking it. He pulls me closer, our hips bumping gently together.
"Is it hot in here?" I ask, my voice loud in the quiet room. "It feels really warm. I should have Engineering check the HVAC on this floor."
Alexsey's lips are pressed together tightly, the heartless prick, and he strolls over to the thermostat, adjusting it.
"Hello, Caroline Basha, I am Ivan Lebedev," the registrar says, in heavily accented English. He's smiling at me kindly, like he sees nervous brides all the time and that this is perfectly understandable. "Are you ready?"
Taking a quick glance at Nikandr, I'm struck with resentment. He's perfectly calm, radiating a quiet confidence that makes me want to punch him.
"Yeah," I say bleakly.
Mr. Lebedev walks us through a dry as dust civil ceremony that lasts approximately three and a half minutes and then presents us with a form to be signed. Nikandr produces two rings from his jacket pocket. A plain band for him, and a platinum ring with a large, square diamond for me.
There are no flowers. The only photographer is Alexsey, who takes several quick pictures, telling me to, "Stop looking like you just got an ass cancer diagnosis."
Highly motivating.
And then, he's gone. The registrar is gone, and the bodyguards. It's just Nikandr and me in the suddenly empty suite.