Chapter Twenty-One #2
There is no humor in it.
“You arranged a wedding.”
“I arranged an exit.”
The words stop her.
Her arms loosen by a fraction.
I continue before Mikhailov can interrupt.
“You don’t have to marry me.”
“No?”
“No.”
“It was what your uncle and I agreed to—“
“Step-uncle.”
I incline my head.
“Your step-uncle.”
Viktor exhales sharply behind her.
Lucia doesn’t look at him.
“If you refuse, Father Russo won’t perform the ceremony.”
The priest nods.
“I won’t.”
“You can leave with Viktor,” I continue. “The agreement becomes void.”
She stares at me.
“Those are my choices? Marry you or go back to him?”
“They’re the choices I was able to give you.”
“How generous.”
“It isn’t.”
Her eyes shine, but she refuses to let the tears fall.
“More than likely, Viktor will lock you away again and choose another husband for you.”
“I’m already locked away.”
The statement cuts through me.
I force myself to continue.
“If you marry me, you’ll leave this church as my wife.”
“And then?”
“You return to Belmont.”
“To your bedroom?”
“No.”
“Gio’s?”
Silence descends over the church.
I glance at my brother.
He looks as surprised as I feel. Then something guarded enters his expression.
Lucia turns toward him.
“What if I want to marry Gio?”
Gio opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I look back at Lucia.
“The contract I signed with Viktor specifies a marriage to me.”
She snorts.
“How unfortunate.”
Father Russo looks as though he would like to be anywhere else.
Gio recovers his voice.
“Lucy—“
“Don’t.”
His mouth closes.
“If you prefer Gio,” I say, “that’s something the two of you can discuss when this is over.”
My brother looks at me.
I ignore him.
“But tonight, the agreement is with me.”
Lucia’s eyes narrow.
“Convenient.”
“No. It isn’t.”
She understands enough to hear what I’m not saying.
That doesn’t mean she cares.
Nor should she.
“What happens when we return to Belmont?” she asks.
“You’ll have your own room.”
“Can I leave the house?”
“Yes.”
“Without asking you?”
“You’ll never need my permission.”
“Will you follow me?”
“No. But while Viktor remains a threat, I’ll ask you to take security whenever you leave the property.”
“So I’ll still be watched.”
“Yes.”
Her fingertips press into her upper arms.
“What do you expect from me as your wife?”
“Nothing.”
“No one expects nothing.”
“Then I expect you to remain alive.”
“And?”
“To make your own decisions.”
Her laugh is bitter.
“You’ve become very interested in my decisions.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.”
“I’m aware.”
She looks toward Father Russo.
“If I marry him tonight, can I divorce him?”
The priest’s eyes widen.
“That is a conversation—“
“Yes,” I answer.
Father Russo turns toward me.
“Marco.”
“If you want a divorce, I won’t contest it.”
“How soon?”
“As soon as Viktor no longer poses a threat.”
“That could take years.”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“No.”
She thinks.
Her gaze moves from me to Viktor, then toward the open aisle behind us.
“Six months.”
“What?”
“I’ll remain married to you for six months. After that, you sign whatever my attorney puts in front of you.”
“Six months will make the agreement look fraudulent.”
“It is fraudulent.”
“Not legally.”
She folds her arms again.
“One year.”
The counteroffer surprises me.
“Lucia,” Father Russo begins carefully, “marriage isn’t intended to be temporary.”
“Neither is imprisonment, but everyone seems comfortable arranging that.”
He closes his mouth.
“One year,” she repeats. “After that, if I still want a divorce, you won’t argue. You won’t delay it. You won’t decide I need more time to reconsider.”
“I agree.”
“I keep the trust.”
“It’s already yours.”
“My property remains mine.”
“Yes.”
“I have my own attorney. Not one who works for you.”
“I’ll give you a list of independent firms. You may choose one or find your own.”
“No children.”
The words strike harder than I expect.
I keep my expression still.
“No children.”
“No shared bedroom.”
“Agreed.”
“You don’t touch me unless I give you permission.”
“I won’t.”
“And if I want to leave Belmont?”
“I arrange somewhere safe.”
“No locked doors.”
“None.”
She studies me, searching for the trap.
There isn’t one.
Not beyond the situation itself.
“I want it in writing.”
“Grace prepared an agreement. You can review it with Father Russo and change anything you want.”
Gio leans toward me.
“You brought a prenup to church?”
“I came prepared.”
Lucia glares at him.
He raises both hands.
“I’m not helping.”
Father Russo looks at the agreement Armando carries forward.
“I’ll review this with Lucia privately.”
Viktor steps into the aisle.
“This is unnecessary.”
Lucia turns on him.
“Then there won’t be a wedding.”
He stops.
For the first time tonight, something like power enters her expression.
She understands.
Viktor needs this agreement.
Perhaps more than she does.
“I’ll read it,” she says. “Alone.”
Father Russo guides her toward the sacristy.
When she passes Gio, he touches her arm.
She stops.
“Where are your shoes?” he asks.
“I threw them at Yevgeny.”
She looks toward the man.
“He deserved it.”
“I’m sure he did.”
She continues without looking at me.
The sacristy door closes.
We wait forty-three minutes.
Mikhailov grows impatient after ten.
At twenty, he threatens to leave.
At thirty, Father Russo appears long enough to request a pen and inform Viktor that if he interrupts again, the wedding will not occur.
Gio sits in the first pew with an ice pack against his face. The parish secretary found it in the basement freezer beside several trays of ice intended for the AA meeting.
“You’re enjoying this,” I tell him.
“Immensely.”
“She might refuse.”
“She might.”
“What will you do?”
“Start shooting people?”
“That’s your plan?”
“It remains available.”
The church grows colder while we wait.
One bank of candles burns low. Wax slides down their sides and hardens against the brass stand. Somewhere behind the sacristy wall, muted voices rise and fall.
Lucia is close enough that I could reach her in seconds.
I have never been less certain that she will come back through a door.
The sacristy opens.
Lucia walks out holding the amended agreement.
The deputy clerk follows her, carrying the marriage documents Lucia and I still need to complete.
Lucia has made several changes to the agreement in blue ink. Notes crowd the margins. Entire clauses have been struck through.
The sight gives me more hope than it should.
People don’t negotiate documents they have no intention of signing.
“I want copies before I leave,” she says.
“You’ll have them.”
“I want my own bank accounts.”
“Agreed.”
“Angela keeps my mother’s photograph until we return.”
I frown.
“You left it at the house.”
“I’m aware. I don’t want anyone moving it.”
“No one has.”
Something flickers in her eyes.
She looks away.
Then she turns toward the clerk.
“I’m willing to complete the paperwork.”
The clerk looks at me.
I join them in the parish office.
The room is too small for the three of us. Lucia sits beside me at Father Russo’s desk, close enough that the satin sleeve of her dress nearly brushes my jacket whenever she reaches for another page.
She shifts away each time.
The clerk walks us through the required questions with the weary precision of someone who has decided she doesn’t want to know why armed men are waiting in the church.
Lucia reads every document before she signs it.