Chapter Thirty
In which there is no proposal like… no proposal.
Dmitri…
St. Petersburg is spread out before me, like glittering stars in a velvet night sky. The sun has just set and the last bluish-purple hues remind me of Ava's eyes.
"Are you sure this is how you want to handle it?" Roman asks.
"This is the only way," I say. "Stating that she's a 'friend of the family' isn't enough, and you know it. Naming Ava as my wife means I'll have complete impunity to crush anyone who has gone along with this trafficking ring. And I intend to crush every skull that ever thought of creating it."
"Ah, violence. Now that's something I can get behind," Roman says approvingly, leaning against the doorway. "It's Ava being completely unaware that I'm questioning."
"Do you have a better suggestion?" I snap. I know he's trying to sort through this with me, but there isn't another way. "Just make sure the paperwork is clear, and that the marriage holds the same legal status in the United States as well as here in Russia."
He shrugs. "It's already done."
"What's already done?" Ava walks into the great room, smiling at us innocently. She's wearing a cream-colored cashmere dress, because even summer nights can be chilly here.
"Our reservation at Chudesnyy," I lie smoothly, taking her hand and kissing her ringless fingers.
"Oh, that sounds exciting. I'm looking forward to trying out more Russian food. Will they have pelmini?" Ava asks. "Those lamb dumplings are still my favorite."
"I'll make certain of it," I say.
***
Chudesnyy is situated in a three-hundred-year-old building with a commanding view of the city.
There's an enormous, domed skylight in the middle of the dining room, and Ava pauses to touch the delicate filigree of the two-story brass globe placed within it.
"This looks like the designer wanted you to feel like you were dining in the sky," she says, looking at the elaborate blue tiles.
Taking her arm, Roman whispers, "There is certain to be "work associates" of our father here tonight, and I would give my left kidney to avoid speaking to any of them. Keep walking. Pausing gives them a chance to close in."
"Right." She speeds up. "Show no weakness or appreciation for exquisite architectural features."
"Exactly!" Roman laughs.
Dinner drags on longer than one of my father's annual meetings that he insists on holding with every brigadier in the Morozov Bratva. I regret choosing the chef's degustation menu as every new course scrapes deeper against my patience, leaving me raw and irritated.
Chef Lev has taken a liking to Ava and insists on explaining each dish in detail.
"This is a traditional salad," he blusters, "Herring Under Fur Coat. You see that the bottom layer of the dish is pickled herring fillet, while the finely shaved beetroot…"
By the time Chef Lev proudly presents the restaurant's signature dessert - a Medovik honey cake - I'm ready to strangle him with his own toque blanche.
Still… I suddenly find the culinary ordeal worth the wait as a groan leaves Ava's lips as she takes her first bite of the honey cake. It is blatantly, luxuriously pornographic. Based on how the chef adjusts his spotless white apron, he's thinking the same thing.
"Where to now?" Ava asks, after having thanked Chef Lev profusely. He'd bent to kiss her hand, took one look at my expression and backed away hastily, still nodding and smiling at her.
She loops one arm through mine and then another through Roman's as we leave the restaurant. She's flushed and happy from our excellent meal, pointing at different houses along the boulevard, asking about their histories.
Crossing the Bolsheokhtinsky Bridge, we tell her about skating on the Neva River during winters spent here. "Oh, this is the scene that Alexsey painted!" she says happily. "It's wonderful to see it for myself."
The stories about skating turn to other memories from our childhood, and I realize how skilled my Ava is with interrogation.
"From everything your mother has shared," she says, "your upbringing wasn't as brutal and cruel as your father and his brother Yuri's experience."
We exchange a look over the top of her head. "Very little could be as brutal and cruel as their childhood," I say.
"I would like to point out that Father was strict as hell," Roman interjects. "Try swimming in a freezing as fuck lake in March, just to, 'get the blood moving.'"
"Thank you for that unpleasant reminder, brother," I say. "Don't forget our spirited runs through the forest, hunting and eating only what we could catch. That was an annual favorite."
"Alexsey always managed to appear weaker than the two of us to make us feel guilty.
We'd give him all the best bits of the rabbit, or stag, whatever it was that we caught.
It wasn't until he beat us across the lake during the next frigid swim that we realized he had been bullshitting us the entire time," Roman says, laughing fondly.
"I still think he deserved more than a single nut punch for that one." I shake my head.
"A nut punch?” Ava questions incredulously. “Good lord, I thought you people liked each other!”
“We do,” Roman and I answer together.
Our steps slow as we approach the front of the Smol'nyy Cathedral, and she looks up at the enormous stained-glass window above the entryway.
The chandeliers inside glow through the glass, highlighting the blues and gilded golds of the exterior as the five onion-shaped domes soar up to the sky.
“Oh…” She's rapturous. “Are we allowed to go in?”
“Absolutely,” I say smoothly.
I let Ava wander for a while; she circles the narthex, admiring the ancient carved statues of the Saints, and then I draw her into the smaller chapel east of the enormous one where Sunday services are held.
Father Artur is waiting for us, a tall, angular crow in his long black cassock and four cornered skutia cap.
“It's a pleasure to see you again, my sons,” he says, smiling widely at Roman and me.
Were I a more cynical man, I would think it was because of the extravagant donations the Morozov Bratva has given over the years.
Father Artur, however, is remarkably guileless and truly seems to enjoy our family, even though he is quite clear on where our money comes from.
“And this must be Ava Blue,” he says approvingly, taking her hand in his. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Father Artur.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Ava smiles awkwardly. “How do you know my name?”
His eyes dart uncomfortably to mine. “Ah, to reserve a tour, I had to give our names,” I smile blandly.
“Well, your church is beautiful, Father,” she says.
“It isn't mine,” he smiles. “It is the Lord’s. Though I'm sure he appreciates your words.”
Roman and the priest head up to the altar, speaking in low tones as a sour-faced little woman moves around silently, lighting candles. I’ve seen her here before, arranging flowers and reverently dusting the statues.
I keep Ava busy with some discussion of the Archangel Michael and his flaming sword featured in one of the stained-glass windows while the others quietly prepare for the service.
The chapel is filled with the scent of beeswax and the lemon polish they must use on the floors. The altar is simple, but there are two huge flower baskets there filled with peonies, roses, and silver-grey sprigs of Russian sage.
Ava finally notices all the subtle changes around us. “Do we need to leave?” she asks. “It looks like they're getting ready for something.”
I take her hands and pull her to sit down with me. “We are ‘the something’ that’s happening,” I say calmly. Bozhe moy, she's adorable when she frowns, that little furrow between her brows.
“What does that mean?”
“The threats are more serious than I've told you,” I say quietly. “It is my job to protect the innocent affected by our world. It is also my job to be honest when I must. You being an honored guest of our family was made clear, and it held off some of the violence, but not at all. We’ve stopped two attempted attacks on you. Unfortunately, we are no closer to finding out who is behind them.”
She makes a little choking sound and for a moment, I feel guilty putting this burden on her. “I see,” she says faintly. “Are we here because you're going to hide me in St. Petersburg?”
I arch a brow, a bit surprised. “Would you accept it?”
“I'd hate it,” she replies honestly. “As beautiful as the city is, I'm a stranger here. I have no purpose. At least at home, I can work with your mother.” She takes a step away from me, rubbing her arms. “But I also don't want anyone dying for me.”
“People will die, Ava, for whatever cause they believe in. Or, for whoever pays the most money,” I add cynically.
“The one standard that everyone in the crime world agrees on, are no attacks against wives and children. There are still a bestial few that would try, but the condemnation from the other crime families would be brutal. They would never find another ally. Every organization would turn on them.”
She sways a bit, like a flower in the wind and I squeeze her hands tighter, waiting for her to take a deep breath. “What are you telling me?” she asks. “I'm not your wife.”
“You're about to be.” I say it as a promise. It might sound like a threat to Ava, I don't know. But it is my most sacred vow.
“I can't- we don't-” She looks around a little wildly and Roman and the father halt their conversation to watch us. “This is nuts!”
“Your look of horror is very flattering,” I say dryly.
“You can't want to marry me,” she snaps. “Is this from some misguided sense of duty on your part? Because… because your mother likes me?”
“This is the best - and at this point - the only way I have of keeping you safe,” I say, trying to radiate calm.
I don't tell her how much I want her. Or that too much of my time is devoted to thinking about her, the thoughts constantly circling my mind of all the different ways Ava could be taken and hurt. That I love her.
“Father Artur will marry us tonight. Roman is our witness,” I explain. “The marriage will be legally recognized both here in Russia, as well as in the United States.”
“We'd just… show up back home, waving our wedding rings and saying… What? How do we explain this?”
“We'll have a large, elaborate party in New York to celebrate our hasty wedding," I say. "We'll explain that we were too passionately in love to wait."
Now, she yanks her hands out of mine. “This is too much.” Her gaze sweeps the chapel, looking for exits and I turn slightly, so that she's forced to look at me again.
“Ava. This is the only way,” I say. “I give you my word that I will keep you safe. I’ll do everything in my power to find these fuc-“ I pause, “these people. But I can't be worrying about you every moment while I do it.”
“I don't understand how a wedding ring will magically protect me." Her voice is high and squeaky, she stops to clear her throat. “I'm clear that I don't know all the rules of your world, but I don't see how this could change anything.”
“You'll have to trust me that it does,” I say. “This will effectively isolate the trafficking ring. Nobody is going to back them if they continue to go after you. And they know this. Say yes.” I take her hand again. “Say yes, and give me room to work.”
“What if I say no?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but I hear each word ring sharp, and loud.
“You won't,” I say calmly, even though my demon is raging, battering against the walls of my control. “You may not be from our world, but you're smart. You have lived through some of the worst of it. You'll say yes.”
She looks at me, and then at the priest, who’s watching us with concern. “This is temporary, right? I mean, this isn't one of those spooky 'mafia married for life' rituals?”
I force myself to smile and for the first time, I lie to her. “You’ve been reading too many books. Say yes, even if it is yes, for now.” So many expressions flash across her beautiful face. Shock. Anxiety. Fear. Anticipation, perhaps? Then, acceptance and she nods.
I have to help her rise. She's a bit unsteady on her feet, and I slide my arm around her waist as we walk up to the altar where Roman and Father Artur are waiting.
“Mrs. Ivanova, will you stay and act as a witness?” Father Artur calls over to the woman sternly lighting the candles. She folds her hands over her black dress and nods stiffly, but I see a tiny smile curling in the corner of her mouth. Who knew? Mrs. Ivanova must be a bit of a romantic.
"Do you come here, Ava Birmingham Blue and Dmitri Maksim Morozov, of your own free will?" Father Artur asks.
"I do," I say confidently, squeezing Ava's hands.
He turns to hear her response, and there's a painfully long pause, only a moment but stretched, it feels into hours before Ava whispers, "I do."
The prayers are simple, much of the pageantry usually present in Russian orthodox weddings has been pared down. It makes the impact of the father's gentle voice, the solemnity of the rings exchanged, even greater.
Father Artur beams, a slight tinge of relief in his tone as he offers the last blessing.
Clearly, not having been certain if we'd get through this without the bride running shrieking down the aisle at some point during the ceremony.
Roman blows out a sigh. Mrs. Ivanova smiles, her sour expression blooming into happiness for us.
Inside me, my demon is calm again, resting and satisfied. Ava is enclosed in my arms, in my life, and in my heart. She’s not ready to hear it, but she will be soon.
***
Bozhe moy - My God in Russian