20. Cora
CHAPTER TWENTY
cora
The bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral rang, their deep, solemn sound echoing straight through me. The cathedral’s grandeur was overwhelming when we’d pulled up, its soaring spires piercing the crisp grey sky. Inside, the air was thick with reverence and the soft hum of conversation.
I’d never been one for churches once I’d moved to Ireland, which would have made Conall have an absolute fit. I still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten the priest to perform the service without all the required meetings or whatever they needed. Probably bribed them, I guessed.
I stood in the bridal suite just off the main sanctuary, staring at my reflection in an antique mirror framed in gilded gold. The gown still felt right to me. Maxim was right —classic fit me best. Though the old cathedral was drafty, I didn’t even regret that it was sleeveless. Conall had a makeup artist and stylist come and arrange my hair. I probably looked nicer today than ever. I never could get the hang of the cat-eye look, but the girl who came had whipped it out with no problem. I peered at myself as the stylist set my veil.
“Say cheese.”
Ronnie had been taking nonstop pictures all morning. She discovered that Conall had not hired a photographer and had gone bananas. Honestly, I hadn’t considered any wedding details and hadn’t thought I’d care, but now I was having second thoughts about the small things like commemorative photos. I was glad Ronnie had decided to do it for me. This morning, I’d photographed my dress and veil hanging up. It had given me a nostalgic longing for my mother, who had died when I was a toddler.
The girls had somehow designed color-coordinated dresses and showed up to be bridesmaids. I had so many feelings about it that I wasn’t even sure how to express them.
“You’re like the prettiest bride I’ve ever seen,” Natasha said.
“We all look gorgeous,” I admitted.
The girls looked fantastic today in their burgundy ankle-length dresses. Each was slightly different to suit their tastes but worked cohesively together. Ronnie said yesterday that Natasha loved high fashion, and that showed today. She’d pulled out a magic trick at the last minute.
“Thank you so much. You worked miracles.”
A knock at the door broke through my thoughts, and Conall stepped in. He looked powerful and dangerous, his tuxedo perfectly tailored, but his expression drew my attention. His eyes, always so sharp and calculating, were softened with a rare vulnerability.
“You look so beautiful, Cora,” he said, his voice low and thick with emotion.“So grown up. I’m sorry Ma isn’t here to see it.”
“Me too,” I answered. I didn’t remember her, but I didn’t bother saying that to Conall. I knew that he missed her, too. I smiled, though my stomach churned with nerves. “I feel like I might faint.”
There were equal parts of me that seemed fraught with anxiety and excitement. Yes, I’d made my peace with this arrangement, and I would admit that I was wildly thrilled by the thought of sex with Max.
But.
I wasn’t sure if I was even ready for marriage.
To be a wife.
I didn’t even know much about him.
Conall stepped closer, his hands settling on my shoulders. “You won’t. You’re stronger than you know. Remember that. And if you do need me, I’ll be right there. I’ll catch you if you fall. You can always come to me if you need to.”
The reassurance steadied me, and I nodded. Taking his offered arm, I drew a deep breath.
OK then.
I didn’t have much choice anyway. Did I?
The sanctuary was a breathtaking mix of power and history. On one side, the Irish—my family—filled the pews. Men and women whose bloodlines traced centuries of rebellion and loyalty sat alongside our allies: Angelo, his brother, and what had to be his sister, and Ilias, whose huge Greek family took up several pews.
On the other side, the Bratva occupied the pews with military precision. Maxim’s men, each one sharp and severe, stood in rows with their shoulders squared and chests tall. Their stoicism only highlighted the presence of a few women in the front.
Security was thick, almost suffocating. Well-armed men in dark suits with earpieces lined the walls, stationed at every entrance and alcove.
As the music began—the hauntingly beautiful strains of a Celtic harp—I clutched Conall’s arm tightly as I followed Ronnie down the aisle lined with white roses, their fragrance mixing with the scent of incense. The cathedral’s vaulted ceilings seemed to stretch endlessly, and the stained glass cast vibrant patterns of color onto the polished marble floor.
Maxim stood at the altar, his figure commanding in a perfectly tailored black suit and what must be his brother Dimitri at his side. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His cinnamon-brown eyes locked onto mine — determined.
“Breathe,” Conall whispered, his arm steady beneath my grip. “Four breaths, count with me. One.”
As Conall counted, I took a breath and a step, then another. Each felt monumental, the weight of expectations and alliances pressing down on me. But as I moved closer to Maxim, the pressure eased, replaced by a growing sense of clarity.
Conall leaned in, his voice low. “Almost there. Hold your head high. You’re doing brilliantly.”
The final steps were a blur. And then we were there. Conall placed my hand in Maxim’s, his grip firm as he transferred me to the man who would now share my life. Maxim’s fingers closed over mine, warm and steady.
Conall leaned into Maxim, his voice a low murmur only the three of us could hear. “You take care of her, or you’ll answer to me.”
Maxim’s lips curved into a faint smile, but his tone was unwavering. “You have my word.”
Conall stepped away, leaving me alone with the man I was about to marry.
“You look exquisite,” Maxim said, his deep, accented voice carrying a note of sincerity that made my breath catch.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I replied, surprising myself with a small smile.
The priest began the ceremony, his voice solemn as it filled the cathedral. I barely registered the words. My focus was on Maxim—the quiet power he radiated, the way his thumb traced gentle circles against my hand.
When it came time for the vows, his voice was steady, each word carrying the weight of a promise. “I will honor and protect you, zayka. Always.”He slid the wedding band onto my finger, and a lump settled in my throat as I raised my eyes to his.
“You may kiss the bride,” the priest said.
Maxim didn’t hesitate and swept me to him, capturing my mouth in a kiss that was too long and too heated for the altar of St. Patrick’s, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.
As we turned to face the congregation, the applause was electric with expectation. Maxim leaned down, his breath warm against my ear.
“Let’s make this reception fast, da ?” He murmured, his voice low enough for only me to hear.
“If that means yes — I agree.” I winked.