Chapter Twelve
In which this is the wedding of Mr. Maurice’s dreams.
Oksana…
Wedding Day…
Anka wanders out onto the terrace, overlooking the city.
"It's a lovely suite," Mother says, nodding approvingly.
"There is an excellent view of the Kremlin," Mr. Maurice says proudly.
"Hey, Oksana, look at this!" Anka calls, looking deadly serious. "There's a view of the Kremlin!"
This is an inexplicably popular sales line used in every Moscow hotel brochure and since I'm not getting married at the Kremlin, I'm not sure how it's relevant, but Anka and I need a laugh.
Within a couple of hours, Mr. Maurice's assistants transform the suite, adding a full makeup station, my wedding dress, an identical backup wedding dress, a full send-off outfit, a backup send-off outfit, and an avalanche of jewelry, hair supplies and most concerningly, a wig that perfectly matches my hair color.
"What is that?" I ask, eyeing it like it might come to life and leap at my face.
"In case your hair is limp and unmanageable," the stylist says.
Anka squeezes next to me on the bench at the makeup table. "Do you think they could construct an entire replacement Oksana? In case you are not enough to live up to Mr. Maurice's standards?"
My face is nearly purple, trying to keep a semi-hysterical howl inside. Mr. Maurice has already threatened Xanax if I looked "unsettled."
By noon, the Bride's Brunch room service is delivered and everyone enjoys it, except for me.
Mr. Maurice is worried about 'face puffiness,' though I am allowed six strawberries from the fruit garnish.
My hair stylist Zoya is entering round three with my hair, working on achieving "maximum volume" and complaining about how long it is.
Mother is in constant motion, firing off text after text and conducting several urgent phone calls. By the time there's a knock on the door, I nearly shove poor Zoya aside to open it myself to find a crowd of grinning cousins.
"We thought you could use some moral support," Iris says, eyeing the buzz of activity with some amusement.
"Oh, thank you," I whisper frantically. "If there was something sharp enough to stab Mr. Maurice here in the suite, I would have already used it."
Despite the wedding planner's shrieks about "puffiness!" Caroline opens several bottles of champagne as Iris introduces the newcomers. "This is Ava, our Pakhan Dmitri's wife."
She's blonde, like me, but as small and dainty as a fairy princess. "It's a pleasure," she says warmly. "It's so good to have more female backup in this family. Our strength is in outnumbering the men."
I'm surprised into a laugh before turning to meet Violet. She looks just like Rose and Iris. "Ah, you're the saintly big sister to the twins, I've heard the stories," I say as she reaches in to give me a gentle hug.
"The stories are true," she laughs. "These two are a menace. I'm Roman's wife, and this is Liria."
"Don't worry," Liria smiles sweetly, "I'm the last cousin, I know there's a lot of us. I'm married to Roman and Dmitri's brother Alexsey."
In short order, they gather around Mother, introducing each other and coaxing her to sit down and have something to eat.
"Thank you!" I whisper to Liria. "I don't think she's slept for the last forty-eight hours."
"She does look like…" she hesitates and I know she's looking for a tactful way to say, 'high-strung.' "Your mother looks like she could use a rest."
To add to Mr. Maurice's displeasure, another tea cart is sent up without his authorization, filled with zakuski; tiny sandwiches, blini and caviar, mini pirozhki, and red fish roulades.
"If she passes out from low blood sugar," Ava stands between him and the plate they're filling for me, "it would reflect poorly on you for not looking out for the bride, wouldn't it?"
It's the first time I've seen the angry little Frenchman back down, and thank you, Lord! I'm finally allowed to eat.
Anka is outside on the terrace, watching the activity around the hotel and delivering a steady stream of updates. "The cars are pulling up. I've never seen these many limousines outside of a funeral procession."
"Inspiring, thanks," I say dryly.
"Oh, and there's your brothers," she says. "It looks like Maks is coming down from a big night or he's still drunk. It's hard to tell."
"That tracks," I agree.
"Would Vadim be drunk?" Anka comes back in, looking worried.
We'd both seen more than one groom, hammered to the gills, at these society weddings, and it's always mortifying.
"No," I say decisively. "Not Vadim."
"Yes, even if he's drinking," she says, "I imagine the booze freezes in his system, turns to mist, and then floats away before he could even get drunk."
A few minutes later, my brother Maks pounds on the door. "Let me in! I bring news!"
"Isn't that bad luck to see the bride?" Dasha asks.
"No, that's only the groom," Rose says.
"What if Maks takes a picture and sends it to Vadim?" Dasha seems genuinely concerned.
"You might be overthinking this," Iris pats her hand.
My brother swaggers in, tie crooked and a slightly manic grin that tells me he's been pre-gaming with the vodka. "Hey, Oksana, you look great."
I look down. I'm in a robe and the stylist has just wiped a stinging green face mask off my skin.
"Thank you, brother. Why are you here?"
"Did you hear about Yefim?" Maks asks. He strolled over to the tea cart, popping one of the tiny sandwiches in his mouth and winking at Anka, who rolls her eyes.
"Way to ruin the vibe, Maks," she says.
I look up, and the stylist nearly stabs me in the eye with the mascara wand. "What do you mean?"
There had been whispers through the mansion over the last several days about some dire injury to the Sovietnik. I'd heartlessly hoped the injuries would be severe enough to keep him from coming to the wedding.
Maks takes one of the pretty little stools and drags it across the marble floor with a resounding screech as the stylist’s cringe. "It happened three days ago. Someone attacked him at home," he says, looking longingly at the plate of sandwiches. "It's pretty horrific."
"How so?" I ask. I'm looking forward to the answer and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
"They took out his left eye," he says gleefully before seizing a smoked salmon canape. "Then, they sliced his nose off. And I'm not going tell you what they did to his-"
Masha, Mr. Maurice's "wardrobe mistress" makes a terrible little hurking sound and presses her hand against her mouth.
Anka slaps Maks' shoulder. "Stop it. This is not the time or place, you Cossack! Do you want your sister to vomit? Do you know how hard they had to work to get her looking this good?"
"Harsh," murmurs Dasha.
Inside, I'm filled with joy. There's a warmth in my chest that's radiating outward.
"I don't know," Caroline says, trying to look serious. "Oksana is glowing. Almost radiant. Do continue."
The New York contingent of this family is tough. Ava's a physician assistant, so I know blood and guts don't upset her, but everyone else looks intrigued, as well.
"The assailant cut off his dick!" Maks says gleefully. He's given up on basic civility and I'm here for it. There's a chorus of little shrieks from the cousins.
"This is your Bratva's Sovietnik?" Ava asks incredulously.
"Not anymore, I'm guessing," Iris mumbles into her glass.
"That's… oddly specific," I manage to say without grinning like a fool. "Have they caught his attacker?"
"No, and there's no sign of how they got in or out," Maks says. He leans over, snagging the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket next to the dressing table. "You don't need this, right?"
My makeup artist has given up, retreating to stand by the dress rack, still clutching the mascara wand.
"Like it would stop you," I say. "What, um... You said there was something worse?"
"Worse than getting his dick cut off?" Anka says.
"Oh, I haven't gotten to the best part," Maks says, a wicked glint in his eye. "You ready?" He used to do this to me when we were kids. He'd find a truly horrific, bloody slasher film and he would wake me up and make me watch it with him.
"What?" Oh, I sound eager. Too eager.
He catches my gleeful expression before I can hide it and eyes me suspiciously for a moment. "They took his dominant hand," he says. "They didn't chop it off. They sliced down between each finger down to the wrist; they didn't even cut off his hand. Just left it… flapping."
Poor Masha bolts for the bathroom, barely making it in time as we all wince in sympathy.
"This way was somehow even more disgusting," Maks says after taking another swig from the bottle. "The doctors had to amputate it anyway, of course."
"Smooth, Maks. The wardrobe mistress is out of commission and now, I'm going to have to iron the wedding gown!" Anka throws a sandwich at his head and he catches it in his mouth like a trained seal.
"This should be horrifying," Ava murmurs, "but since no one seems upset - aside from poor Masha, of course - I have to admit I'd like to know what kind of knife the assailant used to sever tendon and bone like that, the metacarpals are particularly-"
Zoya drops the bottle of hair spray and runs for the bathroom, shoving Masha aside, and throwing up everything but her internal organs.
"Ladies, I'm so sorry!" I say, rising and looking for clean towels. "We're horrible people."
"Sit," Violet says. "I'll take care of them."
"So, the good news," Maks continues. "Father will officially announce Nikolai as his Sovietnik-"
"Finally!" I throw my arms up.
"-and I will become Vor. The announcement is next week."
The girls are silent, watching me for a reaction, and all I can think of is the well-deserved ruin of this man. Yefim enjoyed tormenting people without the power to protect themselves. Somehow, his punishment feels even better than if they'd killed him.
Clearing my throat, I try to look grave and composed. "And yet, they have no idea who did this?" I know I still sound too happy for such a horrific discussion, but I can't stop myself.