Chapter Twenty
LUCIA
The electronic lock releases at eight thirty.
I expect Yevgeny to request I get ready for another dinner.
Ivan walks through the door instead.
For several seconds, I can only stare at him.
He looks thinner. A pale scar cuts through one eyebrow, and some bruising along his jaw has faded to yellow. His hair is shorter than before, uneven around the ears as though someone took clippers to it without caring about the result.
“Ivan?”
His eyes meet mine.
Then they move away.
“Start packing.”
I stand.
“Where have you been?”
“You only have an hour, sestrenka.”
The name is a blow to the heart.
Yevgeny never calls me anything but Lucia.
“An hour until what?”
Ivan crosses the room and takes an overnight bag from the closet. He places it on the bed and opens it.
“Pack what you’ll need.”
“For how long?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Ivan.”
“Please. We don’t have time for this.”
There’s something he isn’t telling me.
I look toward the open bedroom door.
Yevgeny stands in the hallway, one shoulder against the wall. He hasn’t entered, but his presence explains everything.
Ivan hasn’t been forgiven.
He’s being supervised.
I turn back to him.
“Did Viktor do that to you?”
My gaze settles on the scar through his eyebrow.
Ivan opens the overnight bag wider.
“Pack.”
“Because I escaped?”
His hands still.
“Because I failed to stop you.”
The answer is so quiet that Yevgeny may not hear it.
“I’m sorry.”
Ivan looks at me.
For one moment, his expression softens.
“I’m not.”
Yevgeny shifts in the hallway.
Ivan turns back to the bag.
“You need clothes. Enough for several days. They’ll send the rest later.”
“Send them where?”
He doesn’t answer.
I begin packing whatever is closest at hand.
Not because I’m cooperating.
Because a bag means I’m leaving Viktor’s house.
I don’t know whether that’s good or bad yet.
I place underwear, pajamas, and toiletries inside. Then I pull several dresses from the closet and lay them across the bed.
Ivan folds them without comment. His movements are slower than I remember, his right shoulder stiff beneath his jacket.
“Does Aniya know what’s going on?” I ask.
“No.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Yevgeny says she’s with Dmitri.”
“So I’ve been told.”
None of us seems to know anything except what Viktor wants us to believe.
Footsteps approach.
A young woman named Ekaterina enters carrying a garment bag. She’s one of the stylists Viktor began sending after I refused to make myself presentable for his dinners.
She lays the bag across the bed.
“Your uncle asked that you wear this.”
“Step-uncle.”
Her gaze flickers toward Yevgeny.
She leaves without answering.
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside is white.
Not cream.
Not silver.
Pure white satin.
It falls to the knee, fitted closely through the hips before narrowing toward the hem. The square neckline is modest, the shoulders covered by short sleeves. Tiny pearl buttons run down the back.
For one moment, I don’t understand.
Then I do.
The room tilts.
“What the hell is this?”
Ivan says nothing.
I turn toward him.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
His expression closes.
“Ivan.”
He looks toward the doorway.
Yevgeny gives no indication that he intends to help.
“All I was told,” Ivan says carefully, “is that there’s a wedding.”
Nausea comes so quickly that I press one hand to my stomach.
“Who?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Ivan.”
“You’re expected to go through with it.”
“No.”
His eyes close briefly.
“I’m sorry.”
A laugh bursts out of me.
The sound makes him flinch.
“You’re sorry?”
I think of every man Viktor has placed beside me since my return.
Sergei Antonov’s damp hand covering mine.
The man from Montreal who asked whether I spoke Russian as though I weren’t sitting three feet away.
The widower from New York whose gaze moved over my face and body with the cold consideration of a man inspecting something he might buy.
One of them is going to be my husband.
“No.”
My voice is louder now.
“I’m not marrying anyone.”
Ivan closes the overnight bag.
“You should get dressed.”
“Did Viktor choose Sergei?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wasn’t told the groom’s name.”
I look at Yevgeny.
He knows.
I can see it in the complete absence of reaction.
“Who is it?”
“That isn’t for me to say,” he answers.
“It’s my wedding.”
“Yes.”
“But not for me to know?”
His jaw tightens.
“Get dressed, Lucia.”
“No.”
“If you refuse, Viktor will send people to dress you.”
“Then let him.”
Yevgeny steps into the room.
Ivan immediately moves between us.
The action is small.
Instinctive.
But Yevgeny notices.
Something passes between the men. A warning from one. A refusal from the other.
“You have two hours,” Yevgeny says.
Then he turns and walks into the hall.
Ivan waits until he’s gone.
“You can’t fight this here.”
“Watch me.”
“You don’t know who Viktor will send.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
His voice hardens.
It’s the first glimpse of the Ivan I remember.
“Put on the dress. Get into the car. Wait until you know what’s happening before you decide how to fight it.”
“You want me to cooperate?”
“I want you conscious and uninjured when you reach the church.”
The church.
My mind catches on the word.
“Where?”
He hesitates.
“Saint Cecilia’s.”
The same church where I hid the night I escaped.
The same church whose open door led me to Marco.
The cruelty of it steals my breath.
“Did Viktor choose it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Father Russo know?”
“Yes.”
“He won’t marry me against my will.”
“No.”
Hope rises.
Ivan sees it.
“Viktor knows that too.”
“Then why take me there?”
“I don’t know.”
He picks up the overnight bag.
“I’ll bring this downstairs.”
“Ivan.”
He stops at the door.
“Help me.”
His shoulders tighten.
“I can’t.”
“I just need you to open a door and look away.”
His eyes meet mine.
“There are two men in the hall, four on the stairs, two at the door, and Yevgeny will be in the car with you.”
He lowers his voice.
“You won’t make it through the front door.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“An opportunity.”
“What if one doesn’t come?”
Something dark crosses his face.
“Then make one.”
He leaves with the bag.
The door closes.
The electronic lock beeps.
I stare at the wedding dress.
The light spills across the satin, making the fabric shine against the darker bedspread. It looks lovely.
That makes me hate it more.
I think of Marco.
I hate that his face is the first one that comes to mind.
He promised Viktor would never get me back.
Then he delivered me to his door.
Whatever happens tonight, Marco won’t save me.
I leave the dress on the bed.
Ekaterina returns with shoes, a velvet jewelry box, and enough cosmetics to disguise me as someone arriving at the church willingly.
I send her away.
At eight forty-five, I take it into the bathroom and change.
I don’t put on the heels Ekaterina left.
I don’t style my hair.
I don’t wear makeup.
If Viktor intends to marry me to one of his associates, he will not receive the polished bride he ordered.
Yevgeny returns at nine thirty.
Ivan isn’t with him.
His gaze moves over the dress, my bare face, and finally my feet.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I’m not wearing them.”
“You’ll need them.”
“I won’t.”
He considers arguing.
Instead, he picks up the shoe box.
“Fine.”
Two men wait outside my bedroom.
Four more stand near the staircase.
Another two at the door.
Ivan told the truth.
Yevgeny escorts me through the house without touching me.
Viktor waits in the foyer beneath the crystal chandelier. His dark suit is immaculate, and a white rose has been pinned to his lapel.
The sight of it makes everything feel more real.
He looks me over.
“Where are the shoes?”
“I don’t like them.”
His mouth tightens.
“Put them on.”
“No.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
“Then I suppose I’m going barefoot.”
For one moment, I think he’ll order Yevgeny to force them onto me.
Instead, Viktor looks at his watch.
“Get her in the car.”
I walk outside under my own power.
The summer night is warm against my bare arms and feet. A line of black vehicles waits at the curb, their engines running, their dark windows reflecting the townhouse lights.
Yevgeny opens the rear door of the first SUV.
I stop.
“Who am I marrying?”
He says nothing.
“Is it Sergei?”
“Get in.”
“I deserve to know.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
The answer surprises me.
“Then tell me.”
“It isn’t my place.”
“That hasn’t stopped anyone from deciding the rest of my life.”
His expression remains unreadable.
“No,” he says. “It hasn’t.”
I slide into the SUV.
Yevgeny takes the seat beside me.
Viktor sits up front.
The drive through Boston passes in silence.
I watch the streets beyond the tinted windows, searching for landmarks and counting turns.
Not because I don’t know where we’re going.
Because counting keeps me from screaming.
When the church comes into view, candles glow behind its arched windows. The stone fa?ade rises above the street, pale beneath the lamps.
The front doors stand open.
The same doors that once offered escape.
Tonight, Viktor intends to use them to close another cage around me.
The SUV stops.
Yevgeny gets out and opens my door.
I don’t move.
“Lucia.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Then tell the priest.”
“I’m not going inside.”
Viktor’s men spread across the church steps. Dark suits against pale stone. Waiting.
Yevgeny lowers his voice.
“You can refuse inside, where Father Russo can witness it, or you can refuse here, where Viktor controls what happens next.”
I look at him.
It isn’t kindness.
But it may be the closest thing he has to offer.
I step out of the SUV.
The pavement is still warm beneath my bare feet.
Barefaced and dressed in white, I walk toward the church where I once found freedom.
This time, I’ll have to make my own.