Chapter Twenty-One
MARCO
Convincing Father Russo to perform a wedding on less than twenty-four hours’ notice was no easy feat.
“We have an AA meeting in the basement at eight,” he told me. “They have the space until nine thirty.”
“Then we’ll take the church at ten.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It sounded like the point.”
He stared at me across his desk.
The parish office hasn’t changed in twenty years. Books lean against one another on shelves that bow beneath their weight. A wooden crucifix hangs behind the desk, and an ancient radiator sits beneath the window, silent and useless at this time of year.
A brown stain spreads across one corner of the ceiling.
I make a note of it.
Father Russo has known Gio and me since we were children. He baptized us, heard our first confessions, and developed most of his gray hair while attempting to keep us from being expelled from catechism.
He isn’t easily intimidated.
He is, however, deeply suspicious of any Catenzio request involving a church after dark.
“A wedding requires preparation,” he said.
“We’re prepared.”
“The bride and groom are supposed to prepare together.”
“We’ve both had complicated schedules.”
“Marco.”
“The legal arrangements are in place.”
That wasn’t entirely true.
The court had waived the three-day waiting period. A deeply unhappy deputy city clerk had agreed to remain available in the parish office with the necessary documents.
But no marriage license could be issued unless Lucia consented and completed the paperwork herself.
If she refused, nothing would be filed.
“That wasn’t my concern,” Father Russo said.
I placed the agreement on his desk.
The donation I promised for repairs to the church roof didn’t convince him.
Neither did the amount allocated to the food pantry.
What finally changed his mind was my assurance that he could speak to Lucia privately and that he would not perform the ceremony unless she consented.
Even then, he didn’t look pleased.
Now Gio and I stand side by side at the altar, waiting for the Mikhailovs to arrive with my prospective bride.
Saint Cecilia’s is smaller than I remember.
The church seemed enormous when I was a child, all vaulted ceilings, painted saints, and rules I was expected to understand without having them explained. As an adult, I can cross the nave in less than thirty seconds.
I can also see every entrance from the altar.
The main doors open into a narrow vestibule. Two side aisles run between the pews and the stone walls. The sacristy has a second exit into the parish offices, and a service door near the choir loft opens onto the alley.
Armando has four men inside and another six positioned outside.
Mikhailov will bring more.
Candles burn along the sanctuary steps. The air smells faintly of wax, incense, and the floor polish the church has used for as long as I can remember.
Gio straightens his tie for the ninth time.
“Stop.”
He glances at me.
“What?”
“You’re going to damage it.”
“It’s a tie.”
“You’ve nearly strangled yourself twice.”
He adjusts the knot again.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You look terrified.”
“I’m not the one marrying a woman who currently wants me dead.”
“I don’t think she wants me dead.”
“She slapped me the last time I ate her strawberries.”
“You knew they were hers.”
“I didn’t know fruit could be assigned.”
A black SUV stops outside.
Then another.
Headlights sweep across the stained-glass windows before going dark.
Gio looks toward the church doors.
“She’s going to murder both of us.”
“It will be fine.”
He gives me a flat look.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
I look across the rows of empty pews.
“I know this is the best way I have to protect her.”
“That doesn’t make it a fair choice.”
“No.”
“She may never forgive you.”
“I don’t expect her to.”
“And if she leaves with him?”
The possibility has occupied every thought since I signed the agreement.
“Then I find another way.”
“What way?”
“I don’t know.”
“Comforting.”
The church doors open.
Mikhailov’s men enter first.
They divide themselves between the rear wall and the side aisles without needing instruction. Dark suit jackets despite the mild night. Several carry themselves stiffly on one side, advertising weapons they believe are concealed.
Their footsteps echo across the marble floor.
Father Russo watches them with growing concern.
Armando’s hand moves toward the gun beneath his jacket.
I shake my head.
We aren’t here to do violence.
Even Mikhailov’s men should understand the consequences of spilling blood inside a church.
Viktor enters alone.
He wears a black suit with a white rose pinned to one lapel. The flower is too formal for a negotiation and too celebratory for a wedding the bride doesn’t know is hers.
Yevgeny and Lucia are nowhere in sight.
Viktor takes a seat in the first pew as though he has arrived for an ordinary ceremony.
I glance at my watch.
Ten fourteen.
“You’re late,” I tell him.
“My niece is reluctant.”
“You were told she had to consent.”
“She will.”
The confidence in his answer makes my stomach turn.
Before I can respond, a commotion breaks out in the vestibule.
“I won’t do it!”
Lucia.
Gio closes his eyes.
The low murmur of a male voice follows.
Yevgeny, presumably attempting reason.
“You can’t make me!”
Something strikes the wall.
A shoe, judging by the sound.
Then another.
Two sharp cracks echo through the vestibule.
Father Russo jumps.
Their voices carry through the closed doors.
“Lucia.”
Yevgeny’s voice remains controlled.
“Do that again and you’ll be walking into the church over my shoulder.”
“I’ll break your nose.”
“It’s been broken before.”
“I’ll do a better job.”
Gio looks at me.
“She sounds well,” he says weakly.
“Remarkably.”
Lucia swears in Russian.
Father Russo crosses himself.
Viktor remains seated.
“Gio,” I say, “perhaps you can explain that we don’t intend to harm her.”
He stares at me.
“What makes you think she’ll listen to me?”
“She usually does.”
“That was before you made me an accessory to betrayal.”
“You didn’t know.”
“Do you think that distinction matters to her?”
Another object strikes something wooden.
“Go.”
He sighs and walks toward the rear of the church.
The vestibule door closes behind him.
For several moments, the shouting stops.
Murmured voices replace it.
That’s a good sign.
Then comes the unmistakable sound of an open-palmed slap.
Father Russo flinches again.
I look toward the ceiling.
The vestibule door opens.
Gio returns with a red handprint across his left cheek.
“She understands,” he says tightly.
“Does she?”
“No.”
He takes his place beside me.
“But she’s coming.”
The doors open.
Lucia storms into the church.
For nine days, I have seen her only in photographs taken from outside Mikhailov’s house. A dark head behind a window. A pale face in the rear of a car. Proof of life without anything resembling life in it.
None of those images prepared me to see her again.
She wears a white satin dress that falls to her knees and follows the long lines of her body. The square neckline is modest, the short sleeves covering her shoulders. Her dark hair hangs loose and unstyled around a face bare of makeup.
She’s barefoot.
The absence of shoes makes the arrangement look more coercive, not less. Viktor has dressed her as a bride but failed to make her resemble one.
She is five foot seven, tall enough that she doesn’t appear diminished by the men surrounding her. Anger makes her seem taller.
Yevgeny follows carrying a pair of white heels, one in each hand. A red mark colors one side of his face.
Apparently, Gio wasn’t the only casualty.
Lucia’s gaze finds me.
Dark eyes. Pale face. Mouth drawn into a furious line.
The force of her attention lands like a physical blow.
If looks could kill, our funeral Mass would begin before the wedding.
She marches down the aisle without waiting for an escort. Her bare feet make almost no sound against the marble, but her hands are clenched tightly enough that her knuckles have gone white.
Yevgeny starts after her.
“Let her go,” I say.
He stops.
Lucia reaches the altar and turns on me.
“You.”
“Me.”
She looks at Gio.
“And you.”
Gio touches his cheek.
“I came to help.”
“You told me to hear him out.”
“That was the help.”
“I should have slapped you twice.”
“You nearly did.”
Father Russo clears his throat.
Lucia turns toward him.
Her expression softens by a fraction.
“Father.”
“Lucia.”
He looks from her to me.
“I believe we need to discuss consent.”
“So do I,” she says.
Viktor rises from the pew.
“The agreements have already been signed.”
Father Russo looks at him.
“I don’t care what you signed.”
Viktor’s expression darkens.
Father Russo has survived fifty years of Boston parish politics.
He remains unimpressed.
“I will speak to Lucia privately,” he says.
“I want to answer her questions first,” I tell him. “Then she may speak with you alone for as long as she wants.”
Lucia folds her arms.
The movement pulls the satin more closely across her body.
I keep my attention on her face.
“I have one question.”
“Ask.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“You’re supposed to marry me.”
“I gathered that.”
“Viktor and I reached an agreement.”
“About me.”
“Yes.”
“Without me.”
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightens.
At least I have the decency not to soften the truth.
“What did you give him?”
“Six million dollars. Forgiveness of several debts. Two shipping contracts.”
Her face loses color.
“You bought me.”
“No.”
“That sounds remarkably like a purchase.”
“I paid him to relinquish every claim he believes he has over you.”
“You could have phrased that however you wanted in the contract.”
“I expected you might prefer accuracy.”
“Then accurately, you gave Viktor money and he brought me to a church in a wedding dress.”
“Yes.”
Gio shifts beside me.
Lucia’s glare cuts toward him.
He becomes still.
“The Rossi trust remains yours,” I say. “Solely yours. I have no claim to it before, during, or after the marriage.”
“You’re discussing my property as though that’s the part that matters.”
“It matters to Viktor.”
“I’m not marrying Viktor.”
“No.”
“You aren’t doing a very good job of convincing me.”
“I’m not trying to convince you.”
She laughs once.