Chapter 29 Sergei
SERGEI
The cars line the street like a small army.
Black sedans. Dark SUVs. Men in suits with hard faces and soft eyes watch the sidewalks, the roofs, the corners. Some of them used to kill for me. Some of them still do. Today they guard something else. My wedding.
I stand just inside the old church doors and watch Vlad argue with a city officer who pretends not to see the guns. The officer signs the paper I had pushed through three days ago that closes this street for “repairs”. No one is breaking our circle today. Not cops, not rivals, not ghosts.
The church is small. White walls. Faded icons. My grandmother lit candles here when I was a boy. The priest who stands at the altar now is the same one who buried her. He never took my money. I never forced him to look at what I had become. Today, I asked him for this one thing, and he said yes.
Andrei stands near the back, hand at his ear, listening to the security net. Kirill is near the side aisle, checking each man who walks in. We have family and allies here, but no one enters without being searched. No one sits with a weapon big enough to ruin this day.
I tug at my tie. It feels tight. The suit fits, but my shoulders itch. I fought through gunshots and fire with less nerves than this. My palms are damp.
Aunt Tanya swats my hand away from my collar. “Stop touching it,” she says. “You’ll wrinkle it. You look perfect.”
“I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes,” I mutter.
She snorts. “You wore worse to war,” she says. “You can wear this to marry the woman you dragged out of hell.”
Her words hit me in a soft place. I nod once. “How is she?” I ask.
“In the side room, with that friend who did her hair,” my aunt says. “She’s calm. Nadia is not.” A small smile touches her mouth. “The child keeps asking when she gets to throw flowers.”
“That sounds right,” I say. My throat feels thick.
A few more guests arrive. Some are old men who helped me climb. I see scars on their hands, gold on their fingers, weight in their eyes. Some are younger captains who now hold their own corners. They look at me with respect and a little confusion. This is not the kind of show they expect from me.
Good. Let them see this. Let them understand what has weight in my world now.
Vlad finishes his argument outside and comes in. He walks straight to me.
“Perimeter is solid,” he says. “We swept the nearby roofs twice. No unknown cars within three blocks. No new faces near the doors. Tech team is on the cameras. No feeds are leaving this building that we did not authorize.”
“You checked the priest?” I ask.
Vlad lifts one brow. “I let his God watch him,” he says. “But yes. No wires, no devices, no strange friends. He is clean. He fears you more than he fears any rival.”
“I hope that is not true,” I murmur. “I hope he still fears his God more.”
Vlad says nothing. He claps my shoulder once, hard. “You’re ready,” he says.
No. I am not. I’m still walking forward.
Music starts, old church strings, simple and clear. Heads turn toward the back doors.
Nadia appears first.
She wears a white dress with soft sleeves and a sash the color of pale gold. Her hair is in two braids that my aunt worked on for an hour. She carries a small basket full of rose petals in both hands. Her face is serious.
She takes one step down the aisle, then another, and starts to throw petals. They land in little piles instead of neat lines. She frowns, then looks up and sees me.
Her whole face lights. She grins so wide, I think her cheeks will hurt.
I feel something crack in my chest.
She walks faster. The priest coughs lightly. She slows again, remembering. She keeps throwing petals, but now she looks between me and the side door where her mother waits.
When she reaches me, she stops, drops the basket, and grabs my hand.
“You look handsome,” she whispers.
“You look like trouble,” I answer, and my voice shakes.
She squeezes my fingers, then lets go and takes her place to the side, near Aunt Tanya. She stands straight, trying to be grown. Her eyes are huge.
The music shifts.
The side door opens.
Raina steps into the aisle.
For a second the room is too bright. It feels like all the air left and then rushed back.
She wears a dress that is simple and clean.
No heavy beads. No long train. The fabric falls straight, soft over her body, moving when she walks.
The neckline shows the line of her collarbones and the small mark I left there last week when I let myself forget we had to face other people.
Her hair is up, with a few loose strands that frame her face.
She wears no veil. She wanted to walk to me with her eyes clear, and I didn’t argue.
She meets my gaze from the first step. She does not look away.
For once, the voices in my head go quiet. No lists. No threats. No plans. Just her, walking toward me, and the knowledge that I didn’t die before this moment.
Halfway down the aisle, I see her swallow hard. Her hands are steady and chin is up. But her eyes shine. She keeps walking.
I hear whispers from the benches. Men who have seen me break bones in back rooms now watch me choke on my own breath because a woman in white is walking toward me with our daughter’s face in her eyes.
Good. Let them see that too.
When she reaches the front, she stops. The priest speaks a few formal words. I barely hear him.
“Who gives this woman?” he asks out of habit. He looks confused when there is no father to step forward.
Raina lifts her chin. “I give myself,” she says.
Some of the old men shift in their seats. The priest’s mouth quirks, but he nods. “So it is,” he says. “Then we begin.”
We stand side by side, facing him. Our hands are empty at first.
He talks about vows. He talks about patience and faith and the work of marriage. Some of his words slide past the edges of my mind. Some land and stay.
He asks for our promises.
“Sergei, repeat after me,” he says. “I, Sergei, take you, Raina, to be my lawful wife.”
I take a breath. My voice feels too big for my throat.
“I, Sergei, take you, Raina, to be my lawful wife,” I say.
He goes on. To love and to honor. In sickness and in health. In good times and bad.
I repeat each line. In my head, I change some of the quiet church words into the real ones I know.
In war and in peace. In blood and in sleep. In boardrooms and back alleys. In blast zones and in kitchens.
Then it’s her turn.
Her voice is steady. Clear. She says my name like it belongs to her mouth. It does.
When we are done, the priest asks for the rings.
Nadia steps forward. Her hand shakes a little as she holds out the small cushion.
Both bands lie there. Mine is a plain heavy ring, the kind of thing that will sit on my hand when I sign deals and men will know it means something they cannot touch.
Hers is my mother’s ring, polished, sized to her finger, warmed by days on her hand already.
I take hers. She takes mine.
The priest nods. “Place the ring and speak your promise,” he says.
I slide the ring back onto her finger, over the one that is already there so everyone can see it. My voice is low, but it carries.
“With this ring, I bind my life to yours,” I say.
I do not read from any paper. These words are mine.
“Everything I own, everything I control, everything I have done, I put in your hands. I will stand in front of you when there is fire. I will stand behind you when you need space. I will stand beside you when we raise our daughter. There is no part of my life that is not yours now. No house. No account. No secret. Nothing.”
Her eyes fill.
She slips my ring on.
“With this ring,” she says, “I take your name and everything that comes with it. The white parts and the dark parts. The power and the price. I will hold your mind when it tries to drown itself. I will hold your hands when they want to break everything. I will hold your heart when the old ghosts pull at it. I will raise your daughter with you. I will not run unless I’m running beside you, and I will always leave a path for you to find me. ”
Her voice cracks on the last few words. She swallows. I feel something hot move behind my eyes.
The priest smiles a little now.
“You have spoken your vows,” he says. “You have exchanged rings. In the eyes of the church and the state, you are husband and wife.”
He makes the sign over us. His hand shakes. Maybe he is old. Maybe this means something to him too.
“You may kiss the bride,” he says.
I don’t need to be told twice.
I take her face in both hands and kiss her.
It isn’t a quick brush or for show. It’s slow and deep and full of every word I did not say into the microphone of her prison.
I feel her hands curl in my jacket as her body leans into mine.
The room blurs for a second. When we pull apart, there is quiet.
Then someone starts to clap. Then everyone does.
Nadia cheers, loud and clear. “Mama is really Mama now,” she says. “And Papa is really Papa.”
The words undo me.
My vision blurs. I blink, hard. One tear slips down before I can stop it. I feel it on my cheek. Raina sees it and lifts her hand to wipe it away with her thumb.
“It’s done,” she whispers.
“It’s begun,” I answer.