Chapter 6 Dante
DANTE
The ceremony ends, but I barely hear the priest after that kiss.
I can’t stop looking at her. My bride.
She stands beside me, still as glass, her eyes moving over the room like she’s mapping exits. Every so often, her gaze flicks toward me, quick enough to pretend it’s nothing.
I glance down at the band on my hand. Plain gold, heavier than it should be. I didn’t buy her one. But this—this is the one she gave me.
A flicker of memory, smoke in a dark room, the brush of someone slipping past me. But no—if we’d met, I’d remember.
Wouldn’t I?
She turns her head then, catching me looking.
We’re steered toward the front of the church where both families are gathering. It’s all smiles on the surface, the kind that never reach anyone’s eyes.
My father sits off to one side in his chair, watching like a man who already knows how this will end. The Petrovs cluster together—uncles, cousins, people who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
Polite greetings pass between the mothers. No one says congratulations.
Misha stands close to Adriana, his hand in his pocket like he’s holding himself back from stepping in. I catch the way his gaze cuts toward me, cold and measuring, and the way she places a light touch on his arm, a silent signal. He eases, but just barely.
One of her uncles finally speaks. “Unexpected change of plans.” His tone is casual. The look he gives me is not.
I meet his stare until he looks away. “Life’s full of them,” I say.
Her mother clears her throat. “We wish you both…peace.” The pause before the word says she means something else entirely.
Adriana keeps her eyes on the space between our families, the invisible line no one crosses. I can feel the tension crackling there, thick enough to taste.
“Peace would be nice,” Adriana says, eyes steady on her mother.
Her uncle scoffs under his breath. “If you think this will bring it.”
Adriana’s head turns, slow. “You have something to say to me, say it.”
He opens his mouth, but Roman Petrov stops him with a look.
Misha steps in again, eyes fixed on me now. “You treat her right.”
I hold his stare. “She’ll have what’s hers.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Before I can respond, Adriana lays a hand on her brother’s arm. “Go with Mama,” she says quietly.
Her mother squeezes her hand once more, her gaze lingering in a way that makes it clear she wants to say more but won’t—not with everyone watching.
The Petrovs leave first, filing past with nods that mean nothing. Misha is the last to go, his eyes on me until the doors close behind him.
I expect tears. Most women would cry at a wedding like this—tears for their parents, for what they’re leaving behind, for whatever they’ve lost. Her parents didn’t give her much in the way of affection, that much is obvious. Still, I thought there’d be something more than this.
There are tears in Adriana Petrova’s eyes that do not fall. But her back is straight. Her chin is steady. Her hands are still.
She is surrounded by the Volkovs. To her, we are the enemy.
This room wants a celebration. It will not get one. There will be no reception. No clinking glasses, no staged photos, no first toast pretending this is anything but a contract. We end it here.
I touch my cuff and the men clear the aisles of the rest of the guests.
I turn to her. “We’re leaving.”
She looks up. Whatever lives in her gaze is locked away, but she nods once.
We’re almost clear of the aisle when my mother steps in front of us. She has the kind of calm that softens a room.
“Adriana,” she says, and her voice is warm in a way I did not expect. “Welcome.”
Adriana searches her face like she’s testing whether the word is safe. “Thank you,” she replies.
My mother reaches for her hand. Not a shake, just her palm to Adriana’s palm, a small press of skin that says I see you. “You must be tired,” she says. “I’m going to go and get everything ready for you two.”
Across the nave, my father calls her name.
She gives Adriana’s hand one more light touch and tips her head to me. “I will be at the house.” She turns to go.
Adriana watches her leave, and some of the glass in her eyes eases.
Liam slides in on my other side. “That was the nicest welcome this family has managed in years,” he says. “I almost believed we were normal.”
Adriana’s mouth lifts at the corner.
He grins at her, then lowers his voice. “If you need anything before we get you out of here, ask me. Food. Water. A shovel.”
“Liam,” I say.
“What?” He looks at me, then back at her.
“He’s joking,” Adriana says, and there’s a faint dryness in her tone that tells me she understands him.
“Only half,” he says, but he raises his hands. “By the way, I’m the more handsome Volkov brother. Just so we’re clear.”
Adriana’s brow lifts, the smallest reaction, but it’s there. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says.
“Don’t,” I tell her.
Liam just grins wider.
He heads for the side exit, still wearing that grin, and the air shifts without his voice filling it. My mother is already gone. The church is thinning to silence.
I look at Adriana. “We leave now.”
She nods, barely.
I don’t wait for her to follow. The door shuts behind me, and I head for the car.
The driver pulls the door open, and she slips in without a word. I get in after her, the city noise fading the moment the door closes.
She turns her face to the window, veil brushing her shoulder, eyes fixed on the blur of buildings and people sliding past. No small talk. No questions. Just silence.
I should be looking anywhere else. Instead, I can’t stop watching her.
The way her lashes lower when the light hits her eyes. The stillness in her hands, folded in her lap like she’s keeping them from betraying her. The faint rise and fall of her breathing, steady but not calm.
She doesn’t glance my way once. But every second she doesn’t look at me makes me want to see her eyes again.
“How far is it?” she asks, still looking out the window.
“Forty minutes,” I say.
“So…suburbs?” she says, her tone somewhere between curious and resigned. “I haven’t been out there in years. Do you have a big house? Or is it one of those old estates with too many empty rooms?”
“Estate,” I say.
“So you don’t live in the city,” she says after a stretch of silence. “I expect it might be hard to run…whatever operations you run…from out there.”
“I don’t live with my family,” I tell her.
Her head turns slightly, curious.
“But my father insisted,” I add. “Since we’re newlyweds.”
She turns back toward the window, but I catch the faint sound in her throat—half laugh, half something else. “Of course he did.”
The skyline is thinning now, brick giving way to bare trees and wider streets. She traces the glass with her gaze, almost like she’s memorizing the way out.
“I guess that means I’ll be meeting all of them at once,” she says after a beat.
“You will.”
She’s too curious. Too many questions for someone who’s just stepped into the lion’s den.
“Are you usually this chatty?” I ask, leaning back into the seat.
She doesn’t look offended. If anything, she looks thoughtful, like she’s considering how much to give away.
“Sometimes,” she says at last. “When I don’t like the silence. Or when I’m trying to understand someone.” Her gaze drifts back to the passing streets. “I’m not great at just…sitting still and pretending the other person isn’t there.”
The corners of my mouth tug, but I don’t let it show. Nobody’s ever spoken this much to me before, not without caution. People usually measure their words like every syllable costs them. She just lets them out, steady, unafraid, as if I’m not the man everyone warns her about.
I wonder what a normal marriage is like. Shared meals. Lazy Sundays. Arguments about nothing that end with one of you laughing.
And I wonder if she’s making the mistake of thinking this is one.
Her voice pulls me back. “You don’t have to answer every question,” she says. “But if I’m going to live in your house, I’d like to know who else is there.”
“You’ll meet them soon enough,” I tell her.
She makes a small sound, part sigh, part humorless laugh. “That sounds promising.”
We pass a row of shuttered storefronts. She tilts her head to keep them in sight a second longer, like she’s searching for something she used to know. “I’ve been away from this city for years,” she says. “It’s strange to come back and not recognize half of it. Stranger still to come back for this.”
I don’t ask her what “this” means to her. I’m not sure I want to know.
The car takes another turn, and the roads stretch wider. Houses begin to appear—big ones, with gates and manicured hedges. She watches them go by, her expression unreadable.
“This is your world, isn’t it?” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
Her eyes meet mine then, steady, like she’s measuring whether she can stand in it without being swallowed whole.
She looks away first, back to the glass. “Then I guess I’d better learn the rules.”
I say nothing. But I can’t stop thinking about whether she means to follow them—or break them.