Chapter 3 #2
Most of the weddings I've attended have been in the Russian Orthodox Church with all the pomp and ceremony that entails.
I've also been to one or two Catholic ceremonies, so I recognise how pared down this is.
There are no readings from the Bible, no hymns, no pause for reflection.
The priest, who's younger than I'd have expected, rattles off something in Italian which could be a blessing or a curse for all I know.
He doesn't switch to English for the vows. I only know I'm supposed to respond when Gabriele and Lukas stare pointedly at me.
"Sì." Apparently my response is correct as the raven-haired priest nods approvingly and carries on talking.
The singsong rhythm and soothing quality of his voice lull me into a trance that's broken when Gabriele clears his throat loudly.
He holds his hand out for mine and slides a plain gold band onto my finger.
Lukas hands me a matching one. I pass my bouquet to Niamh so I can put the ring on Gabriele's finger.
Should I read something into him choosing to wear a symbol of our marriage?
No, I decide, I shouldn't. I need to stop looking for hopeful signs where there are none. Wearing a ring is practical. It lets people know his marital status, that's all. It's not some romantic gesture toward a woman he barely knows.
I'm so busy chastising myself for chasing unicorns that I almost miss the conclusion of the ceremony. Gabriele skips over the kiss-the-bride part and takes my hand, leading me over to a table at the side of the room. A sheaf of papers is laid out on it, in Italian, of course.
"What am I signing?" I ask as Gabriele hands me a pen.
"The marriage certificate and your agreement to the terms we discussed."
My eyes widen. "You put that stuff in writing?"
"It's important to have clarity on these matters. You'll be given a copy of the papers."
"They're in Italian."
Gabriele tuts impatiently. He removes the first bundle of papers and picks up a second, handing it to me. This set is written in a more familiar Cyrillic script.
"You had a copy made in Russian?"
He nods once. "As I said, clarity is important. I don't want you claiming later that you didn't understand."
He could, of course, have completely different specifications laid out in the two different languages but for some reason I don't imagine him doing that.
Whatever else he might be, Gabriele Volante strikes me as a man of honour.
It's unnerving to realise I've already decided this about a man I've only just met.
I flick through my copy of the contract. Heat rises to my cheeks as I realise he's actually included the requirement for me to perform marital duties. He hasn't gone as far as to reiterate his wherever, whenever, however demand but what's here is enough to bring an uncomfortable warmth to my face.
The temptation to tear the contract to pieces and use it as confetti is strong, but under the weight of Gabriele's expectant gaze, I sign the document.
It's been drummed into me for years that I would have to please a husband one day.
At least Gabriele's not a desiccated bag of bones like Sergei Litkov.
I doubt sleeping with him will be a hardship.
I step aside as Gabriele signs the papers. Niamh hands me my flowers, then she and Lukas both add their signatures to the contract.
"It's done," Gabriele confirms.
Niamh throws her arms around me and whispers, "Zhelayu schast'ya i lyubvi!"
At first I'm caught off guard by her well wishes.
Then I remember she's backed by a powerful Bratva organisation.
Her close relationship with the Lenkov siblings means she's fluent in my language.
I scowl inwardly as I realise she's been making me speak English all this time when she could have met me halfway.
"Bol'shoye spasibo," I say with just a touch of irritation.
She releases me and Gabriele takes my arm, leading me back out to the car. The air outside is stifling. St. Petersburg is warm in the summer, but it's nothing like this. The temperature in Rome is oppressive. It's a relief to slide onto the back seat of the air-conditioned car.
Gabriele gets in next to me. As we drive through the streets of Rome's historic centre, he looks at his phone.
With doubts swirling in my mind, I can't stand the silence for long.
I need something to assure me I've not made a horrendous mistake.
Getting to know a little about the man I've just bound myself to will help.
I glance down at the bouquet of flowers he so unceremoniously presented me with at the altar.
"Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful."
"You're welcome."
Well, that got me precisely nowhere. I try to think of another topic. Everyone knows his older brother, Damiano, killed their father years ago to take over the organisation but I've heard little about the rest of his family.
"Does your mother live in Rome?"
"She died last year."
"Oh, I'm sorry." I take a moment to recover from that faux pas. "You grew up in Rome, didn't you?"
He sets his phone down on the seat between us and turns to give me his full attention — a victory, I think.
"I did."
"And you have two brothers in… Milan?"
"Florence."
"Oh, how lovely." It's a city I've always wanted to visit. "Are they married?"
"Yes."
This is good. Perhaps these women can become my allies, even if they live in a different city.
"Would I like them?"
He shrugs. "How would I know who you'd like?"
It's a fair point. "Well, do you like them? Are they nice?"
Gabriele's jaw twitches as if I've hit a sore spot. "What is this, Katya?" he asks coldly.
"I'm just trying to get to know you."
"Ah, right, so what's next? You want to know my favourite colour? My star sign, perhaps?"
"It would be a start," I mutter petulantly.
"Dark blue and Virgo."
That's not a lot, but it's something. "I'm a Cancer. I think we're compatible."
"Wonderful." He doesn't tone down his sarcasm to spare my feelings. Clearly deciding he's had enough of our conversation, he picks up his phone and returns to reading it.
Virgo. I mull that over. "Wait — that means your birthday's in a few weeks."
"Hmm."
The non-committal sound is all I get from him.
For the rest of the mercifully short journey back to the villa — I suppose I should start thinking of it as home — he ignores me.
When we pull up at the front door, I don't wait for him to come around and help me from the car.
I get out by myself and march up the steps into the grand foyer.
That's where my annoyance loses its momentum. I have no idea where to go.
"Your room is the fourth on the right at the top of the stairs," Gabriele reminds me. "Some dinner will be brought to you."
"What? You're leaving me?"
"I'll come to you tonight." His heated gaze tells me what he'll expect. "Keep the dress on."
With that, he strides off along the corridor. I stand in the hallway, my mouth flapping open. Keep the dress on. I roll my eyes. My husband, it seems, is an asshole.