19. Katya
Katya
Someone, probably my grandfather, decided we should have a reception at his favorite Russian restaurant, Zoloto.
He's holding court, as though this is his wedding, while Artem glowers in the background, and I try to remind myself to keep breathing. Nico and Lacey decided not to attend, and I don't blame them.
Who the hell wants to break bread with a group of men who would gladly put a bullet into their heads if their leader ordered it?
There are perhaps sixty people in the room. I don't know most of them, and I feel wildly on display.
"Smile," Artem mutters, as he guides me through the room. "You're the bride." Since the car, he's been what I can only describe as professional. He guides me through the motions, giving orders as though he's the director and I'm the performer.
It's oddly comforting.
Not that I am going to tell him that.
"I am smiling," I brighten it, making it wider and showing more teeth.
He snorts. "You look like you're about to execute someone."
"I'm considering my options."
His hand presses slightly firmer against my spine — not painful, just present — and we move into the room together.
He chuckles. "These men are yours just as much as they are Viktor's. They are here to celebrate you."
I roll my eyes. "Please do not patronize me. These men are here to suck your cock, not do a thing for me."
He tsks, and I can feel his breath against the shell of my ear as he leans down. "Who knew my sweet virgin had such a filthy mouth."
His words make me shiver, but I'm not going to give in to him. I turn, ready to bite his head off, but I don't have a chance.
We are mobbed by several lieutenants — heavyset men with expensive watches and a specific brand of cologne that makes my stomach turn. Their large stomachs press against their belts, and I watch as Artem's lips turn down, just slightly.
They congratulate us on the wedding. They tell me I'm beautiful.
They tell me Artem is a lucky man, which they say to my face and mean as a message to him.
They ask about ballet with the cheerful incomprehension of people who have never sat through a performance but understand that it's the sort of thing their wives enjoy.
I want to scream at them that they are horrible, evil men, but instead, I smile — with teeth.
I answer.
I perform.
And somewhere in the middle of the third conversation, between a man named Gregor who keeps touching my elbow and a man named Pavel who laughs too loudly at everything, it clicks into place.
And I feel so incredibly stupid for not seeing it before.
This is why Artem chose me.
These men, this room, this particular architecture of power that requires a wife to be both ornament and credential.
Artem needed legitimacy that money alone couldn't buy, and I provided it.
After all, I am Viktor's granddaughter, the only living family he has.
I am the proof that Artem Orlov belongs here, that he could take over the entire Bratva.
Marriage to me, connection to me, elevates him from son of an oligarch to potential heir. All of these men know it. It's why they are tripping over themselves to please him.
He didn't just use me to get to Viktor. He's using me to become him. The knowledge of that makes me feel ill.
"Excuse me," I say, cutting off the men's constant, empty praise. "I need to use the restroom."
Artem's eyes narrow, but I ignore him, picking up my skirts slightly and walking away.
I keep my eyes ahead, trying to find a moment to collect myself, but naturally, I run into Adrian Nero.
The sight of him is both welcoming and jarring.
He comes alone — no wife and no Luc. He moves through the room with the ease of a man who is used to being the most dangerous person in any space and has stopped thinking about it.
"Mrs. Orlov." He bows his head slightly.
"Don't call me that," I snap.
He nods slightly, conceding to my anger. "It was a beautiful wedding."
I scoff. "What is it that you want, Adrian? Please stop blowing smoke up my ass and get to the point. I'm exhausted."
I expect another comment about how sweet Katya shouldn't cuss, but instead, he gets to the point.
"My brother?—"
"What about him?" I haven't spoken to Luc since the night that Artem played his hand. He's called me multiple times, but I have ignored him. I love Luc, care about him as a friend, and I can't trust myself not to let him fix this for me.
Because I desperately wanted him to. As my wedding drew closer, I felt my desperation to escape grow. There were times when I nearly picked up the phone and begged him to marry me.
"He's not going to let this go easily." Adrian says it without inflection, purely informational. "Luc doesn't think past his emotions. It's his best quality and his worst one simultaneously, and it's going to get him killed someday if someone doesn't manage it."
"I haven't spoken with Luc," I tell him. "Because I'm aware of how he is."
"I know," Adrian says. "But I want to remind you that Luc is not an option for you.
" He turns to look at me directly, and the words I'm about to speak die down.
"Your husband is not a man who tolerates interference.
Whatever Luc is planning — and he's planning something, I know my brother — it will end badly for him. I need you to understand that."
I close my eyes briefly. "What exactly do you want me to do about it?"
"Talk to him. Tell him you're fine. Tell him whatever you need to tell him to keep him from doing something that Artem Orlov will respond to permanently." He holds my gaze. "I'm not asking for Artem's benefit. I'm asking for Luc's."
I look at him for a moment, the measured quality of him, the complete absence of anything that isn't useful. "Message received," I tell him. "You can leave now."
He inclines his head. "Congratulations on your marriage."
After what feels like an eternity, I finally make it to the safety of the bathroom. It appears blessedly empty, which means I can fall apart.
I stumble to the sink, gripping the edge as I run the cold water. I want to place my face under it, wake up from this nightmare, but I know that would do nothing more than ruin my makeup, and I can't bring myself to be less than perfect.
This isn't a dream. This is my new reality.
I'm married to Artem, a man I thought I was falling in love with. One who targeted me, used me, and stole my future.
I look in the mirror, take a deep breath, and try to stitch myself together.
The door opens behind me, and I straighten.
The woman who enters is not a lieutenant's wife.
At least not one I recognize. She's younger than most of those in attendance, not by much, but enough to make me raise a brow.
She's also incredibly beautiful. Her long black hair and almond eyes set her apart from most, and I feel a tingle at the base of my spine.
She has the type of face you don't forget, and yet I can't place her, which puts me on edge.
She walks to the sink, her block heels clicking across the tile, as she turns on the water.
And then, without looking at me, she speaks.
"You're the new Mrs. Orlov."
"I am." The words are heavy on my tongue.
"Congratulations." She says it the same way Adrian did — technically accurate, entirely without warmth. "You should know that you got the better end of the deal."
I look at her in the mirror. "I'm sorry?"
"Alexei Morozov." She says the name carefully, the way you say the name of something dangerous. "He was Pakhan before your husband. Do you know what happened to the women in his life?"
I know some of it. Not all. But the few times I met Alexei, I was disgusted. "I know enough."
"Artem Orlov is many things." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "He's not Alexei." A pause. "That's not nothing. In this world, that's actually quite a lot."
She dries her hands. Turns to go.
"Who are you?" I ask.
She pauses at the door. Looks back at me with an expression I can't entirely read.
"Someone who's been watching your husband for a while," she tells me. "Someone who might be able to help you, eventually, if you're interested." She pushes the door open. "Enjoy your reception, Mrs. Orlov."
She's gone before I can respond.
I stand at the sink for a long moment, the stranger's words settling into my chest like something I'll need to think about later when I have the room to think.
Someone who might be able to help you.
I file it away. I straighten my spine. I check my reflection one more time.
Then I push the door open and walk back into the corridor.
Artem is waiting for me. I'm not surprised, considering how long I've been gone.
He's leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, entirely at ease in the way that only very dangerous men can be entirely at ease, and he looks at me when I appear with an expression that tells me he's been waiting long enough to have noticed exactly how long I was gone.
"Time to go," he says.
I look back toward the reception room — the noise of it, the chandeliers, laughter carrying above everything else. "I'd like to say goodbye to?—"
"Time to go, Katya."
Something in his voice makes me look at him directly. It's not anger. It's something quieter than anger and more final.
"And if I'd like a few more minutes?"
He pushes off the wall. Steps closer, until there's very little space between us, until I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze. His voice drops to something that isn't quite a whisper but isn't meant to carry.
"You can have a few more minutes," he says, "or Gregor can have a conversation with Nico tomorrow about the fact that a Marini connection doesn't mean Marini protection. Your choice." He holds my gaze. "I'd like to go home."
The words are soft. The meaning isn't.
I hold his gaze for exactly three seconds. Long enough to make sure he understands that I heard him, that I'm choosing this and not collapsing into it. Then I turn and walk toward the exit without waiting for him.
He falls into step beside me.
Outside, the November air hits my face, and I breathe it in slowly. The car is already waiting. Of course it is.
I get in. There's no point in fighting. Not right now.
Artem settles beside me, close, and the door closes, and we pull into traffic.
The city moves past the windows, and I watch it and think about a woman in a bathroom who said someone who might be able to help you like she'd been planning to say it for a long time.
I think about Lacey saying we can use this.
I think about Artem's hand at my back, present and warm and completely in control.
I press my palm flat against my sternum and feel my own heartbeat.
Still here, I think.
Still here.