Chapter Twenty-One #3
I would expect nothing less.
Because the court has waived the waiting period, the clerk issues the license and hands it directly to Father Russo.
Nothing about the process feels ordinary.
At least every signature belongs to the person whose name appears beside it.
When we return to the sanctuary, Father Russo takes his place at the altar.
“Have you made a decision?” he asks.
Lucia stares at me.
“Yes.”
My heart stops.
She walks toward the altar.
Barefoot.
Furious.
Beautiful.
She takes her place beside me without offering her hand.
“I’ll marry him.”
Viktor exhales behind us.
Father Russo looks at her carefully.
“Are you choosing this marriage of your own free will?”
Lucia’s mouth tightens.
“I don’t like the circumstances that brought me here. I don’t forgive the men who arranged them.”
Her gaze moves briefly toward Viktor before returning to me.
“But I understand the terms, and I am choosing to marry Marco.”
The priest searches her face.
After speaking with her privately, he appears to find what he needs.
He nods.
The ceremony begins.
I have attended enough weddings to know the responses without hearing the questions.
Tonight, I hear every word.
Lucia says each one as though she’s issuing a threat.
She stands rigidly beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her arm without touching it. One loose strand of hair rests against her cheek. She ignores it.
When Father Russo asks whether she takes me as her husband, her eyes remain on mine.
“I do.”
The words contain no affection.
Only determination.
I deserve nothing more.
When it’s my turn, my voice nearly fails me.
“I do.”
Armando hands me the ring.
A plain gold band.
I considered using my mother’s, then decided Lucia deserved something that carried no history she hadn’t chosen.
Her hand is cold when she gives it to me.
A faint red mark circles her wrist, left by someone’s grip or by her struggle in the vestibule. I don’t ask which.
Not now.
I hold only her fingers.
I slide the ring into place without touching more of her than necessary.
She does the same with mine.
Father Russo pronounces us husband and wife.
Then he looks at me.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Lucia’s eyes narrow.
“We don’t have to,” I tell her.
Viktor is watching.
So are his men.
Lucia looks over her shoulder.
Then she turns back to me.
“Make it convincing.”
Before I can respond, she grabs the front of my jacket and pulls me down.
Her mouth strikes mine.
It isn’t gentle.
It isn’t affectionate.
It’s anger given physical form.
For one dangerous second, instinct threatens to take over.
I notice the warmth of her mouth. The pressure of her fist against my chest. The faint scent of soap in her hair.
I want to touch her.
Pull her closer.
Kiss her as though this marriage is something either of us wanted.
I keep my hands at my sides.
Lucia releases me.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her breathing is uneven.
The fury in her eyes hasn’t diminished.
“Convincing enough?” she asks.
I clear my throat.
“Yes.”
Gio makes a sound behind us that might be a cough.
Father Russo closes his book.
Viktor approaches the altar.
“The agreement takes effect immediately.”
“It does,” I say.
“You’ll transfer the first payment tomorrow.”
“After Lucia and I leave.”
His gaze moves to her.
“Remember what you owe this family.”
Lucia looks at him.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
Viktor’s expression hardens.
I step between them.
“She’s my wife now.”
The words change the room.
Mikhailov’s men remain near the doors.
Ours stand along the opposite wall.
For the first time, the numbers favor us.
Viktor looks at me.
Then he smiles.
A public alliance.
A profitable arrangement.
A defeat he can rename.
“She’s your problem now,” he says.
He walks away.
Yevgeny sets Lucia’s shoes beside the first pew before following.
She doesn’t put them on.
Gio approaches carefully.
“Are you going to slap me again?”
“Probably.”
“Tonight?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Fair.”
His gaze drops to the ring on her hand.
Something painful crosses his face.
Lucia sees it.
So do I.
She looks away first.
Armando opens the church doors.
Cool night air moves through the sanctuary, disturbing the candle flames.
Lucia stands at the top of the aisle, staring toward the street beyond.
“You’re free to leave,” I tell her.
She looks at me.
“No.”
Her fingers curl around the folded agreement.
“I’m married.”
The distinction matters.
She starts down the aisle without waiting for me.
Gio watches her go.
“She agreed,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean she chose you.”
“I’m aware.”
I look at the woman who is now my wife.
Barefoot, furious, and walking away from me as quickly as dignity permits.
I follow.
At the church doors, Lucia turns.
“One year, Marco.”
“I remember.”
“And then you let me go.”
The promise lodges beneath my ribs.
“If that’s what you want.”
“It will be.”
She steps into the night.
I tell myself a year is enough time to destroy Mikhailov.
Enough time to restore Lucia’s freedom.
Enough time, perhaps, to earn her forgiveness.
I don’t allow myself to hope it will be enough time for anything else.