Chapter 2 #2
In the eyes of the Church, in the eyes of every dangerous person filling this pewed cathedral, I was nothing. Ash and memory. And yet here I was, alive, holding my son, and watching my husband—my tormentor—prepare to pledge himself to another woman.
Vanya’s gaze swung between Seraphina and Dmitri, finally resting on me.
Confusion flickered across his small, storm-grey face, mirroring his father’s stubborn frown.
My stomach knotted tighter. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t shield him from the sight of this orchestrated betrayal.
The bride reached the altar, and the priest’s voice boomed, rich and reverberating:
“Beloved in Christ, we are gathered here in the sight of God and this congregation to join in holy matrimony Dmitri Volkov, don of the Volkov family, and Seraphina Orlov, first daughter of the Orlov family.
“Dmitri Volkov, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you live together in marriage, love her, comfort her, honor and remain faithful to her, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in hardship, in joy and in sorrow, for as long as you both shall live?”
The chapel sank into a silence so complete I could hear the subtle scrape of Vanya’s sneakers on the marble floor, the whisper of his breath as he pressed closer into me, his small hand clutching mine with all the unspoken questions a child shouldn’t yet know.
Dmitri’s gaze did not soften.
Not for the bride. Not for the priest. Not even for me, sitting at the far back, invisible to the world but bleeding in every heartbeat.
His face was marble, carved and cold.
His jaw flexed once. Twice.
Then he opened his mouth, and the words that came out were deliberate—
“I... will.”
It left Dmitri’s lips and exploded inside my chest like a fragmentation grenade.
The cathedral blurred, the organ swelled into a distant, meaningless drone, and the murmurs of the congregation faded to nothing.
All I could hear was the wet, heavy thud of my own heart hammering against my ribs, threatening to break free.
My fingers curled into fists so tightly that blood welled hot and thick between them, dripping in slow, glistening beads onto the cold marble floor. I tried to hold it in, tried to steady myself, but the shock, the rage, the heartbreak—it was all too much.
“Mom?” Vanya’s small, trembling voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline in the storm. “Why doesn’t he look happy?”
I swallowed, my throat raw, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “Sometimes... my love, men do what they must, not what they feel.” A lie. A half-truth.
Vanya’s grip tightened, and he whispered against my shoulder, “Mom...You are bleeding.”
I looked down.
The blood had splattered across his navy shoes, tiny dots of scarlet standing out like cruel punctuation. I tried to smile—a grotesque, jagged attempt that felt more like a scream pressed into my lips.
“I’m okay, sweetheart,” I lied, voice breaking despite my effort.
“No, you’re not.”
He forced my fists open with surprising strength for his age, revealing the half-moon gouges etched into my skin.
Then, storm-grey eyes lifted to the altar. “That man... that’s my dad, isn’t it?”
The words cut through me like glass, flaying every layer of protection I’d built around my heart.
Tears came before I could stop them, scalding and relentless.
I yanked Vanya into my arms, pressing him close so he wouldn’t see me break apart.
My sobs were silent, violent tremors that shook my body, soaking his dark curls. I pressed a sleeve to my face, inhaling raggedly, trying to steady myself.
He didn’t flinch. His tiny hands gripped mine, steadying me in a way that made my chest ache, and his gaze bore into mine with terrifying, perfect understanding.
“He’s a bad man, right? He is the one who made you cry?” Vanya’s voice trembled but carried a clarity, a raw, five-year-old fury that mirrored my own. “He broke your heart... and now he’s marrying another lady?”
I almost laughed through the pain, a bitter, jagged sound that had no humor in it. My son looked ready to leap up the aisle and punch a mafia boss in the knee.
I cupped his face gently, thumb brushing over the sharp little cheekbone—the same cheekbone that mirrored Dmitri’s. “Yes, baby. That’s your father. And no, he... he isn’t a bad man. He’s just... not ours. Not anymore. But that’s okay. We’ll go home to Greece tomorrow. Just you and me. Like always.”
I smoothed a hand through his dark hair, swallowing shards.
Vanya’s lower lip quivered, his small fists balled tight, knuckles whitening. His little body trembled with a storm of outrage and sorrow, pure Volkov fury confined to a five-year-old frame.
I held him tighter, feeling the heat of his anger, the intensity of his loyalty, and the fierce, unspoken bond between us.
In that moment, nothing else existed—the groom at the altar, the bride’s flowing train, the congregation—all meaningless against the gravity of our shared grief, our love, and our survival.
From the altar came Seraphina’s delicate, triumphant “Yes,” floating through the microphone like birdsong, brittle and rehearsed.
The priest’s smile widened, as if savoring the performance. “The rings, please.”
A black velvet box appeared like a jewel in a theater of power.
Inside lay a ring so extravagant it could bankrupt nations: a platinum band cradling a flawless 12-carat Asscher-cut diamond, flanked by tapering baguettes, cold, gleaming, perfect.
My chest tightened.
I remembered my own wedding: Dmitri sliding a plain white-gold band onto my finger with all the tenderness of locking a collar. I had wept then—not for the ring, not even for love—but for him.
Dmitri lifted the new ring, his wrist steady, but his hand trembled imperceptibly.
Seraphina extended her manicured hand, gleaming with anticipation, a fragile emblem of victory.
His right fist clenched at his side. Unclenched. Clenched again.
The first fissure in his stoic facade.
He raised the ring toward her finger.
And then—Seraphina swayed.
At first, it was almost graceful, a delicate flicker of the knees. Then her body folded like origami, the diamond tiara slipping sideways, catching strands of her platinum hair.
A strangled, wet gasp tore from her throat as she pitched forward, twelve feet of silk train tangling around her ankles like a shroud of snow.
Time slowed.
Dmitri did not move. Not a muscle. Not a step. His eyes, storm-grey and sharp, narrowed—not concern, but calculation, a predator observing the unexpected.
Bridesmaids shrieked, racing forward like startled birds. They caught her inches from the marble, flailing, trapped in the folds of her couture nightmare.
The Orlov patriarch exploded from his seat, his face purple with rage and terror. “Doctor! Get the damn doctor NOW!”
A man in charcoal—the Orlov family physician—vaulted two pews with the agility of a trained operative and landed beside her. His fingers flew to her carotid, then fumbled with the emergency kit, ripping it open, instruments clattering.
Vanya clutched my hand, small and taut, his dark curls brushing my wrist. His eyes were wide with fear, a mirror of the chaos erupting at the altar.
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering. Good. Let the empire tremble. Let the golden bride fall. Let this perfect facade crack.
My son’s small voice whispered against the roar in my ears. “Mom... what’s happening?”
I tightened my grip around him, drawing him close. “Something went wrong, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Just... watch.”
“Pulse 180, thready. BP 238 over 148 and climbing—she’s in malignant hypertensive crisis with probable acute catecholamine surge.
Pupils sluggish, possible sympathomimetic toxidrome—cyanide or amphetamine derivative.
We need nitroprusside and ICU now, or she strokes out in minutes!
” the Orlov physician barked, his voice ricocheting through the wedding hall.
The word toxidrome detonated in my chest like a second bomb.
Whispers hissed through the cathedral, sliding between the pews like venomous snakes:
“Delicate little thing—always knew she was too fragile for this world. At least she’s actually beautiful, not like that fat American cow Dmitri married.”
“This alliance would have locked the entire Lake Como for a generation. Someone obviously didn’t want peace—probably the Morozovs.”
“Finally—finally—he was about to marry a bride worthy of him, and now this disaster? Poor Seraphina, she didn’t deserve any of it. She belongs in Lake Como. Not like that American mistake they buried... the one who should’ve been shopping in a Walmart aisle, not walking down a Volkov aisle.”
“He only married that American because she got pregnant. Lost the baby, lost her purpose... no wonder she killed herself. And now—our Seraphina, the one who belongs here—fainting on this glorious day? Absolutely scandalous.”
Each word carved another strip from my skin, leaving raw, bleeding anxiety behind.
It’s no surprise that most people here despise Americans—whether from envy, low self-esteem, or some twisted sense of tradition. But to feel it burn for me... even five years after my ‘death’... it tugs at my heart in ways I can’t fully name.
I tasted coppery blood on my tongue—bitten through my lip in silent fury.
They were carrying Seraphina out now—six men hoisting her limp body like a shattered puppet, her cathedral-length veil dragging across the marble like surrender incarnate.
Her father roared orders, veins straining, his face mottled red with terror and rage.
Dmitri simply stood at the altar, hands loose at his sides, eyes cold and detached, watching the tableau unfold as if he were observing a chess piece topple on the board.
I turned to pull Vanya close—and the pew beside me was empty.
Ice coiled through my veins. Panic clawed at my throat.