Chapter 7 - Darya
When I had first witnessed the afternoon sun blazing in through the stained-glass windows of this church, I’d been overcome.
For just a moment, after entering the church last and shutting the heavy doors behind him, Anton had looked at me and let me look back at him.
I still remembered how I’d thought of how he exuded the same energy as those windows—sad and sainted.
The way he had looked back at me, severe but vulnerable, had made my breath hitch.
Then, the moment ended. As all moments must. And it had occurred to me that he could’ve gathered us all in the church to force me down the aisle. There could have been a dastardly scheme at play.
My guard jerked back into place. His eyes had hardened with scorn.
It’s dizzying to think that had been over a month ago.
Today, the church is bedecked in glamorous accouterments. I walk past the crimson runner stretching from beyond the doors to the chancel, now dressed up as an altar. But I understand that it’s still as much a battlefield as it had been that day.
Predators and scavenger beasts are prone to revisiting carcasses to strip the meat over several nights, continuing to feast until the bones are dry. I can’t help but think of that as I make my way out of the bridal suite set up in the back of this same church.
I’d chosen it for the day myself.
Personally, I believe my choice of venue indicates a fabulous sense of humor about life. Specifically, my life, which has been informed by many experiences, none of which I suspected would bring me here—to this day, binding me to this person.
Humor is a decent anchor.
***
When we were little, Nadya and I used to play weddings. I was always the bride, mostly because my little sister never wanted to be. I always liked it, though. I liked being the center of attention and liked even more the ceremony of it all.
So, it isn’t all that surprising that, growing up, I’ve thought about the big day more than once. What it would be like.
The dress I would wear, the flowers I’d carry, the setting I would walk through, and how many eyes I’d like on me as I did it. Over the years, I’ve accumulated the answers to those questions. Last year, amidst planning Nadya’s wedding, I answered them in the back of my mind.
My sisters-in-law and otherwise—surround me, sentimental and fawning.
A professional already did my makeup in tasteful, smoky neutrals and rearranged my curls into a braided chignon.
But they fuss over my dress: a glimmering reality pulled from my dreams; pearl-white Mikado beginning with an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline, dotted with crystals over an in-built corset, and finished off with a full, frothy skirt that pairs with the dramatism of a long, long train.
A blush-colored ribbon in the back cinches it all together and knots snugly at my tailbone.
They shower me with compliments—Janella, wiping delicately at her shining eyes, and Yulia with her dexterous hands tucking my train in place, and Gela helping me into my J’Adior slingback heels.
And my baby sister, who once made me a bouquet out of three-ply toilet paper and intricate Chantilly lace, brings me my creation of maroon sweet peas and deep purple calla lilies that’ll match the décor, with the cream ranunculus—my favorite—as the centerpiece.
“You sure about this, dude?” Nadya asks, looking younger than she has in years, her eyes wide and doubtful as she looks down at me.
“It’s the perfect wedding,” I say.
Perfect. It’s the right word for it.
For the most part, at least.
It isn’t like her to hold her tongue, but I can tell she does it when I answer.
Probably because she bitched and moaned about my giving her such a hard time about falling in love with her kidnapper-turned-husband.
I can’t lie, it’s a little entertaining, watching her try not to be a hypocrite.
Though slightly less so to watch her be weighed down by the realization that she can’t talk me out of this.
She knows as well as I do that this is a commonplace occurrence.
She’s a more hopeful person than I am on my best day.
Yet, even she has to face that there’s nothing new or novel about a political marriage.
They have been a weapon wielded by people in power since the beginning of time.
Even my brothers, who haven’t exactly come around on the topic, can see that this is an idea with merit.
I honestly think that at least some of them even grudgingly admire Anton’s audacity to go for it the way he did. After all, it isn’t as if he stole me or cajoled me into a union. There was no foul play. His approach had been stunningly upfront. Ballsy.
It was the kind of shit a man leading Bratva could pull off. No one with half a brain could dismiss that that was probably the point. And a long overdue point to be made, if how comfortable his own brother felt going behind his back is the metric to go by.
Anton earned my acquiescence from me.
Of course, one could say that my perception of Anton’s charade is a form of delusion. It isn’t. Delusion would be the belief that his audacity will earn him my respect, my favor, or some hope for my affections. I’m certain neither he nor I is under any such illusion.
However much a romantic I may or may not be, I’ve never been one to be swayed by sugary sentimentality.
What I am is a person who knows what I want; a person who knows her heart, her mind, her soul.
I don’t need sugar. I need the end to justify the means.
I don’t believe in good or bad, heaven or hell—I believe in loving with every inch of my soul, and destroying anything that tries to kill what I love.
What I love is my family.
What remains to be seen is whether Anton Zakharov is the thing that needs to be destroyed.
Until then, he’ll have to do simply as something to be played with.
***
When it’s almost showtime, it’s just me left. Everyone else has been ushered to their seats. A firm, demanding knock sounds against the heavy door of the suite. Upon my subsequent invitation, Trifon’s tattooed hand grips the door, and the other opens for his entrance.
His brows are furrowed and brooding.
I know what he’s going to ask before the words leave his lips. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you down? Or out of here?”
Without a hitch, I answer, “Yes. Positive, bratik.”
Unconvinced, he says for what has to be the millionth time, “Darya, you don’t have to do this. There are a hundred solutions we’d consider before shackling you to Anton.”
“Give me one.”
He scowls darkly. “We could find the mole tomorrow. And then, you’d still be married.”
“That’s a what if,” I point out. “Not a solution.”
“I could—”
“What, kill him? That would’ve been stupid if you’d done it to Viktor, and stupid if you do it now.
” I roll my eyes and fluff out my veil. “Whether we like it or not, our little sister is happy. She’s in love with him.
And the alliance with the Zakharovs may have been initiated because of that, but it’s changed the game for us to share territories and resources.
Routes have tripled. Why would someone come for either of you, given the risk of getting caught, if you didn’t scare the shit out of the other gangs?
Anton is a little bitch, but he’s also played this perfectly.
He’s instigated a power move, choosing to strengthen something rather than admit it is weak.
He placed a domino. Saying no to him makes you look unreasonable and stupid, and we both know you aren’t.
You’ll knock the whole thing down. Then who knows who’ll side with him for what’ll be a bloody war—and Nadya could wind up collateral. ”
Trifon looks away from me, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’m causing him physical pain. I’d bet I am. But the truth is the truth, and while we can bend it to our will occasionally, it still can’t be changed.
I stand up and step slowly towards my brother, coaxing his hand away from his face. “You men underestimate us,” I accuse with tenderness. “Instead of doubting me and trying to rescue me, try saying thanks. Maybe trusting that I know what I’m doing.”
Trifon looks down at me, tucking his knuckles under my chin. He raises my eyes to his. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
“This isn’t doubt, Darya. It’s love.”
Upsettingly, those words urge a lump in my throat. I have to swallow past it. “What kind of love is bereft of respect, Trifon?”
“We do respect you. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s that respect for your life that’s fucking killing me, watching you intertwine it with Anton Zakharov’s. You know, his last wife died.”
I laugh weakly. “You’re forgetting that he’s intertwining his with mine, too. It goes both ways. And he’s not Bluebeard, for the love of God.”
With a doleful glance, Trifon mutters, “That we know of.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek. “I can handle myself—which is also why I’d rather walk myself down the aisle. I’m no one’s to give away but my own, thank you very much. I love you, however, for trying to uphold the archaic custom from a warm place in your heart.”
He blinks at me. “Too many words.”
Shaking my head, I shove him towards the door with another laugh. “Get out and go sit your ass down. I’ll see you in a minute.”
He only takes a couple of steps towards the door before he stops. “I fucking hate this, Dar.” he sighs to the door before he turns the handle. It’s like he can’t bear to look at me when he says, “But you make a fucking beautiful bride.”
The sight of him blurs as he walks out.
I have to force air into my lungs, forcing myself to move, walk towards the mirror to ensure the kohl the makeup artist lined my eyes with is still intact.
It’s grounding to find that it is—though my eyes are redder than I’d like, and glossy with unshed tears.
I’m quick to grab a handkerchief and tilt my face to the ground, blinking against the edge of it.
Even with waterproof makeup, one could never be too sure.
Besides, I’m not giving Anton any reason to think I’m sentimental about this affair. It’s a wedding in its name—and maybe even the only one I’ll ever have—but it’s in service of a reason I believe in.
A final check of my reflection assures me that every aspect of the look, from the bronzy, smoked-out makeup to the rose-pink lining my mouth into a pout, remains immaculate. This is as ready as I’m ever going to be, but it’s ready enough.
I cast the veil in front of myself and step out of the suite.
The doors to the nave are still shut. Beyond them, the symphony of the organ swells to meet me.
I’ve always known it’s the instrument I wanted to accompany me down the aisle.
As I stand there in the back corridor, I inhale the perfume of the bouquet between my hands.
I arrange my train to cascade the way I’ve imagined it will, and begin to walk towards the attendant.
He reaches for the door handle when I nod the signal his way.
He can’t tear his eyes from me—and that, even now, makes me smile a little. Maybe it’ll be love at first sight for Anton, too, I joke to myself, albeit we’re very far from it being the first.
The door swings open, and I know this joke is in poor taste at best.
My feet chart the crimson runner, step by step.
154 people are watching me descend. One would think I’d be taken back to the moment last month, when Anton led me down the aisle and stood me beside him on the chancel.
But no—I think of last year, to a different aisle I’d walked down, as a bridesmaid.
Out of nowhere, of all the people in the world, the only person I can think of is Viktor Zakharov.
A vicious man with seemingly no impulse control.
A traitor. A black sheep. A badass, to some.
My unlikely brother-in-law. All I can think of is the look on his face when he saw my sister in her wedding dress—like the sun dawned on his face at the first glimpse of her.
Like the fact of her existence knocked the breath out of his lungs, and redefined living to him. A man in love.
That’s not how Anton looks at me.
I walk down the aisle, with over a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and the man I walk towards may as well be looking right through me.
You can handle yourself, I remind myself brutally.
My brain absorbs the message, but my heart sinks like a stone in my chest. I’m supposed to be beyond this. That’s what I hate most about it. I shouldn’t care that Anton—devastating in his tuxedo, with a deep burgundy boutonnière—looks nothing more than staid as ever.
His eyes are as hollow as the night I first approached him.
Like he isn’t there at all.
My brain bemoans, What have I done?