Chapter 9 Mina
MINA
I sit at the vanity with the lights set low. The mirror is too honest. It shows the thin line on my jaw where a thicker story lives. I trace it once with a clean fingertip, then stop touching it. Makeup first, memories later.
Or never, if I get a choice in the matter.
My mother stands behind me with a comb. She gathers my hair in her hands and starts to work on me.
The rooms they gave us are neat and quiet.
The boys are next door in the nursery with the monitor humming on the dresser.
Outside the door, Roman’s men—Marcus and Tanner—speak in low voices and stop when they realize the sound carries.
They said something about watching for him, then fell silent. It’s okay, I want to tell them. I know what him they’re talking about.
Vitaly.
If Vitaly shows up at our wedding, he’s an idiot.
Security is out the wazoo. Guests brought guards, and Roman’s team layered them like wedding cake tiers.
Perimeter, inner ring, floor walkers, rooftops.
Cameras everywhere. The gates log every plate.
The kitchen has its own checkpoint. You can’t sneeze here without a man in an earpiece offering a tissue.
The wedding is at Roman’s family home, which is basically a small country with better lighting.
He knows every blind spot because there aren’t any anymore.
He had the house reworked. Paths rerouted.
Sight lines cleaned up. The grounds look like a magazine, but the hedges hide sensors and the roses hide wire.
Vitaly doesn’t have that map in his head.
Roman does. He’s lived it longer, and he’s the one who kept upgrading it while Vitaly was busy telling people he was born to rule.
So, despite growing up here, Vitaly won’t have the advantage. He doesn’t know the code names or the sweep schedule. He doesn’t know about any of the upgrades, but I do. Roman told me about them to make me feel safe.
It worked.
A little.
Funny thing is, there was a minute when I thought I might marry Vitaly.
When we started dating, he sold me a future with a crown and a house that bowed when he walked in.
He said he’d be pakhan. I learned his language, his rituals, the shape of the role standing next to that title.
I pictured myself as a pakhan’s wife because he told me that’s who I would be.
And here I will be. Just not his.
I don’t kid myself about the danger. But if Vitaly tries to crash this day, he won’t be the wolf at the door. He’ll be the stray who wandered into the wrong yard.
“Too much under the eyes,” my mother says. “Let them be eyes. You’re not auditioning for television.”
“I’m trying to look awake.” I dot concealer and tap it in. “They were hungry every two hours last night.”
“They’re in a new place.” She sets the comb onto the vanity and separates another section of hair with her fingers. “We all are.”
“I know.” I set the bottle down and pick up powder. I keep the strokes light. Mom’s right—I don’t need to cake it on. That’ll make it look like I’m hiding something.
My mother meets my eyes in the mirror. “You’re quiet.”
“There’s a lot to think about.” I check my liner and start again because the first line is never the line you keep. “I didn’t picture getting married in a house with guards in the hallway.” I didn’t picture getting married at all.
“Normal people don’t picture their daughter marrying a pakhan either,” she says, but her voice is even. “Do you want to talk or do you want me to tell you how to fix the left side of your eyeliner?”
“Both.” I breathe out and let the room settle back around us. “I like him, Mom.”
“I could tell the night he came to our door.” She pulls a pin from between her teeth. “I know better than to try to talk you out of liking him.”
“You always said I had a type.” I twist in my chair enough to look at her without glass between us.
“You’ve always liked the bad ones.” She shrugs. “I hate that for you.”
“I know.” I lean forward and put mascara on slow so I don’t blink it onto my lid. “Then I met Vitaly. He told me I was exciting. He told me I made him brave. He said a lot of things.”
“And you believed enough of them to keep going.” She doesn’t say it to wound. She says it because we promised we would tell each other the truth.
“The start was fun.” I put the wand down and rest my elbows on the table.
“He was loud and bright and dramatic. Exciting. Dinner felt like the middle of a movie. I learned Russian dishes. Stood in rooms where I didn’t belong and made myself useful so no one would ask why I was there.
” I glance at the scar. “Then he showed me who he was. It didn’t happen all at once.
It arrived in pieces and excuses. I tried to end it three times.
Each time he convinced me I had misunderstood the bad parts or invented them. The last time was the final straw.”
She meets my eyes again. We don’t need to say knife. We don’t need to say clinic. “I know.”
“He said no one would want me now,” I say, not whispering. “Not with what he did to my face.”
My mother’s mouth flattens. “And you proved him wrong.”
“I did.” I open the blush and add a little life back to my cheeks. “Roman.”
“That night changed everything.”
I roll lip balm over my mouth and press my lips together. “I thought it would be one night. Proof that he couldn’t own my life. Then the boys came…”
“Do you regret it? The boys. Any of it.”
“No.” The answer is immediate and solid. “Not for a second. I don’t regret it. Roman is who he is. I know what that means. He can protect them from Vitaly. He can put walls between us and whatever that asshole thinks he can do to us.”
“And you think that’s truly possible? That he can protect you and the boys?”
I hear the desperation in her voice. I feel it in my bones.
“I have to believe it. It’s the best chance I have to protect them.
They saved me once already.” I look at the line on my jaw in the light.
“When I found out I was pregnant, the doctor said pregnancy hormones can change how you heal, and the scar softened fast. It was ugly. Now it’s a thin line.
That’s thanks to them.” I swallow. “By marrying Roman, I save them. Circle of life, I suppose. They saved me from a nasty scar. I’ll save them from their nasty brother. ”
“Stand,” she says, tapping my shoulder. “Time to dress.”
Behind the room divider, everything is white and elastic.
I hang the dress where I can reach it without dragging it over the floor.
Then I set the garter on the chair and breathe once to clear my head.
Underclothes first. I step into them and pull them up by inches.
The fabric is cold from the air-conditioning and then warm with me.
Stockings next. I sit and roll them on carefully, matching the seams, smoothing out the fabric.
The garter is last, a band that means nothing and everything, and I slide it into place with two fingers.
“You good?” my mother asks.
“Almost.” I pull the corset around myself and hook it without swearing, then thread the ribbons and pull until I feel held, not caged. I stand and check the mirror. I look like a woman who made a choice, not a woman being carried.
My mother lifts the dress off the hanger and angles it so it doesn’t knock into the screen. “Ready.”
I hold the bodice and step in. The fabric rises and settles. The skirt falls and remembers its shape. I wiggle a little to get the waist where it needs to sit. “Zip, please.”
Her hands are careful. She works the zipper up and stops once to smooth a fold. I feel the dress close along my spine, a final line. She hooks the little eyes at the top and steps back.
“Turn around,” she says.
I do. The dress is simple and clean. No jewels, no lace, just good seams and a square neckline that leaves my collarbones bare. I check the mirror again. The dress sits on me perfectly. By all looks, I’m ready.
My heart says I’m anything but.
But that doesn’t matter.
My mother is quiet. That scares me more than anything. “You look like yourself. I was afraid you would disappear in this place. I know it’s only been a few days, but you haven’t disappeared. Even in that gown, you look like you.”
“I’m not going to disappear.” I straighten the straps and smooth the sides. “He promised me that part.”
“You know promises are cheap.” She moves to the chair and sits, then immediately stands again like the chair offended her. “Tell me what you like about him, because I don’t trust any of this yet.”
“He listens. When I told him no guns near the babies, he didn’t balk. He agreed without hesitation, even though I know that guns are everywhere in his world. He’s gentle with the boys. He’s not performing gentle. He has a father’s instinct with them, and that’s valuable to me.”
“And with you?”
I draw a long breath and let it out slow.
“I feel safe with him. Not because he’s dangerous, though he is.
I don’t deny that. But because he doesn’t lie to me.
He doesn’t hide things from me. He’d rather let me know everything, then let me decide what to do.
I know the marriage thing is fast and he was pushy about it, but he’s also right.
This is the best way for all of us to stay safe. ”
My mother exhales. “That’s a start.”
“It is.” We finish hair the way we always finish hair—her at the back, me at the front, no fuss. I pin the last piece behind my ear. She pins the other side. And then, we’re done.
One more step to the aisle.
“Do you really want to do this?” She asks it at the exact moment when backing out would be possible and the exact moment when it would hurt the most.
“Yes.” The word comes out steady. “I want to protect them. I want a house where I can sleep.” My throat tightens. I swallow it down. It’s my wedding day, not a day for emotions.
She studies my face. “Okay.”
Someone knocks gently. “Ms. Harbor?” Tanner’s voice, calm. “Ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” my mother calls. She looks at me again. “Shoes.”
I slip into them. I walk once across the room, then back, to make sure the dress doesn’t fight me. It doesn’t. The monitor shows two green lines, then a light blink when one boy shifts and gives up on it. The sound doesn’t change.
“I’ll check them before we go down,” my mother says. “If they need anything, I’ll text.”
“That’s our deal.” I take her hand and squeeze. “Thank you for being here. For all of it.”
“Always.”
Marcus and Tanner straighten when I walk out. Marcus’s mouth twitches like he wants to say congratulations and won’t. Tanner’s eyes flick to the monitor in my mother’s hand and back to the hall. Professional. Appropriate.
“Ready?” Marcus asks.
“Yes.” I step into the quiet hall that leads to a louder decision. My mother goes into the nursery, and Marcus escorts me. The house smells like polish and something green from the courtyard. I pass a mirror and catch my reflection. I don’t slow.
As we round the corner, I feel something I haven’t let myself feel since the boys were born. It isn’t joy. It isn’t relief. It’s a steady kind of rightness that doesn’t depend on dresses or judges. It comes from the choice I made and the reason I made it.
I will keep us safe. No matter what.