Chapter 41
If I ever pictured planning a wedding for myself as a little girl, which I didn’t, basically none of this would have been in my vision.
Not this gaudy dress, not this brutalist church, and certainly not the oaf at the end of the aisle.
I can’t say that I wouldn’t have pictured the blackmail, since that’s such a huge part of our lifestyle, but I would have imagined myself as the blackmailer, not the blackmailee.
The very few things I have control over, though, are precisely as I would have wanted.
My closest friends and family, small circle that it is, are here to support me.
The “wedding lingerie” I’ve chosen, completely concealed by this monstrosity of a dress, is perfectly tailored and makes me feel like a queen.
And, hopefully, everything will go to plan.
“Come in!” A knock interrupts my reverie, and since very few people know where I am right now, I feel safe letting whoever it is in. That, plus the fact that Misha hasn’t been more than two feet away from me since we arrived in Russia. Not even when I went to the bathroom.
“I’ve seen it all, moya tsaritsa. Don’t you recall when you tried to sever your femoral artery in South Africa, and I had to hold pressure on it for four hours before we got to a hospital?”
Since our plan was finalized, he’s calmed down, but I know him well enough to see the turmoil underneath his facade. Hopefully, he can have plenty of the one thing that soothes him soon enough.
“Mila, darling, you look…dreadful.”
Blanche and I have become fast friends recently, and although I don’t think I view her as a motherly presence, she’s a badass. Maybe a cool aunt.
“Thank you. I feel dreadful.”
“You know, this dress looks remarkably similar to my own.”
“Oh? And you think it’s—”
“Dreadful? Absolutely. I didn’t have much choice in mine. A little old lady picked it out of her stock in a tiny town, and we eloped with zero time to plan. In any case, it was a happy day, even if I hated the gown.”
“Hmm.” I don’t know what to say to that, since today is highly unlikely to be happy at all.
“Well, I didn’t come here just to insult your gown. Although I’d be remiss not to mention that you look beautiful, dear. So much so that even the gown can’t dim your radiance. Your hair, in particular, is giving—”
“Warrior queen,” Misha pipes in, proud that someone noticed his handiwork.
The crown braid around my head is much more intricate than I usually wear, but then again, it’s not your wedding day very often.
He’s had to braid my hair for years, especially early on when I wouldn’t let anyone else close enough to touch me. This is his best work yet, I think.
“Yes,” Blanche agrees. “Very warrior queen. But as I was saying, I did come bearing a gift.” She rummages through her purse before pulling out a pair of sapphire earrings.
“My late husband gave me these when we found out our second child was going to be a boy. It would be an honor if you would wear them today. Ivan is very fond of you, and I hope that we’ll get to spend more time together and introduce you to more of our family.
I’ve already had Christmas stockings made for you and—”
Misha must notice the emotion clouding my features, and he jumps in to save me just as I thank Blanche with a tight hug.
“Well, it looks like it’s time to get this show on the road.
Ready, moya tsaritsa?” He holds out a hand and my bouquet, ready to walk me down the aisle and hope everything goes to plan.
Every second of time and inch of space in the church has been accounted for, and as long as there are no surprises, I’m confident of our success.
No surprises, and we might just make it out of here alive.
“I’m ready, moya sila.”
“This really is the ugliest church I’ve ever seen in my life,” Misha whispers as we stand in the vestibule, waiting for the music of my processional to begin. “They couldn’t have added a single pane of stained glass? A hint of gold?”
He’s not wrong. This is a post-Soviet brutalist eyesore, all concrete and sharp angles. It’s going to be easier on my conscience to destroy, though, so that’s a point in the ugly church’s favor.
“You know, moya tsaritsa,” Misha begins, and I hear a rasp in his voice.
“No! No, Misha. None of that. Don’t tell me that you love me and that the life we’ve built for ourselves is more than you could have imagined.
Don’t remind me of our escapades running around as barefoot children or getting high as scrawny teenagers.
Don’t mention how much I’ve grown, or how proud you are of how I’ve never let anything extinguish my fire. ”
He sniffles, but I fight through.
“And I won’t tell you that I love you too and would be dead without you, or a husk of myself at most. That every bar fight and late night have been more vivid with you by my side, and that your presence is why I was able to continue when I wanted to stop so many times.
I’m not telling you any of that shit because one day, you’re going to have a wedding and we’ll get to say these things for real. Today is not that day.”
He snorts and laughs, only once. “Alright, moya tsaritsa. I won’t say any of that, and you don’t either.” Passing me the bouquet, heavier than before, he offers his arm as the music swells. “I will tell you that you have lipstick on your teeth, though.”
Before I can find a mirror, he laughs again, and the doors to the church open, revealing hundreds of stony-faced Bratva cousins, here to try to gain favor at the event of the year. They might not gain favor, but it should certainly be a show to remember.
As we begin our processional, I note that all our men are advantageously positioned. Hopefully, none of them flagged on Zadorov’s watch list, although they’re all wearing minor facial prosthetics to try to avoid recognition software.
Oleg stands at the altar like a conquering hero, and I smile.
To anyone else, perhaps it seems like I’m happy to be walking to my fate with this man, but it’s the thought of slitting his throat that fuels my grin.
Zakhar is in a place of honor at the front of the church, looking like the cat that got the cream.
Or the man who foolishly thinks he’s staged a successful coup.
When we finish our trudge up the aisle, Misha hands me over to Oleg, who places a slimy kiss on the back of my hand as we turn to face the priest. As the traditional ceremony begins, I tune out my surroundings and turn inward to begin opening my boxes.
Some are old friends that I’ve relied on over the years to survive early on and thrive more recently.
Others are new, ready to be tapped into for the first time.
With only a few more aspects of the ceremony remaining, the first of our men should be arriving soon, taking their places on the roof and in the crypt underneath our feet. Then the cavalry can arrive, if everything is timed correctly.
Bang!
The heavy doors of the chapel are thrown open, and the collective gasp of the guests is drowned out only by the clacking of hundreds of guns being cocked to be pointed at…Thatcher?
“I object!”
Oh shit. Either he doesn’t notice the danger he’s in or he doesn’t care. He slowly walks up the aisle, voice echoing throughout the church even as he sniffles.
Oh, solnyshko.
“That’s my woman, the love of my life, and you can’t fucking marry her! She belongs with me! Mila, don’t do this!”
Thatcher’s heartbroken gaze locks onto me, and I swear I can hear my own heartbeat for a few moments.
Then all hell breaks loose.