Chapter 5
Giulia
SONG: GOD, SAVE ME FROM MYSELF BY ASHES OF EDEN
These things I could measure. Everything else was speculation.
I stood in the bridal suite at Saint Mary’s Basilica and stared at myself in the mirror.
The woman looking back was someone I barely recognized.
Hair swept up in an elaborate style that had taken three hours.
Makeup professionally applied. Diamonds at my throat that probably cost more than my apartment.
I looked like a bride. I felt like an impostor.
"You're beautiful," Mamma said behind me. Her voice was thick with tears she'd been fighting all morning.
"I look like a wedding cake."
"A very expensive wedding cake." Isabella appeared at my other side holding a glass of champagne. "Here. French courage."
"It's ten in the morning."
"It's your wedding day. The rules don't apply."
I took the glass and drank half of it in one go. The bubbles burned going down but settled some of the nausea churning in my stomach.
Through the door I could hear the guests arriving. The rustle of expensive fabric. The low murmur of voices. Italian on one side of the aisle, Russian on the other, like we were preparing for battle instead of a wedding.
Maybe we were.
"Five minutes," someone called.
Mamma adjusted my veil for the hundredth time. Her hands shook slightly. "You can still change your mind," she whispered. "We'll find another way."
I thought about Carlo. About Marco Benedetti. About all the ways this alliance was supposed to keep people alive.
"I'm not changing my mind."
"Giulia—"
"Mamma." I turned to face her. "I need you to be strong right now. If you cry, I'm going to cry and then my makeup will run and I'll look terrible in all the photos."
She laughed wetly and dabbed at her eyes. "You could never look terrible."
"Two minutes!"
Papa appeared in the doorway. He wore a tuxedo that made him look distinguished instead of dangerous.
The don disappeared for the day. Today he was just my father walking his daughter down the aisle.
Except his eyes told a different story. They swept the room like he was calculating exits and threats even here.
"Ready?" he asked.
No. Not even close.
"Yes."
Isabella handed me my bouquet. White roses and lilies. Traditional. Safe. The flowers weighed almost nothing but my hands felt clumsy holding them.
We walked to the cathedral doors. Through the gap I could see the aisle stretching forever. Candles flickered along the sides. The altar looked miles away.
And standing at that altar was Dimitri Morozov.
My first real look at him. The surveillance photos hadn't prepared me. He was taller than I'd expected. Broader. The suit he wore was perfectly tailored, but somehow he still looked like he was wearing armor. His dark hair was swept back. His face was all sharp angles and hard lines.
He looked exactly like what he was. Dangerous.
Then he turned slightly and I saw his profile. The strong jaw. The straight nose. And despite everything, I felt my breath catch slightly.
Fine. He was handsome. That didn't change anything.
The music started. Wagner. Papa had insisted on traditional.
"Last chance," Papa murmured as the doors opened.
I didn't answer. Just gripped his arm and started walking.
Every eye in the cathedral turned to watch. I felt them like physical weight. Judging. Calculating. Wondering if I'd actually go through with it.
The Russians sat stone-faced on the right. Black suits. Cold expressions. They looked like they'd come to a funeral instead of a wedding.
The Italians on the left were slightly warmer but not by much. Aunt Maria cried openly. Uncle Tony looked grim. And Geraldo...
Geraldo sat in the back row. His face was a mask of barely controlled rage.
I made myself look away.
One foot in front of the other. The dress dragged behind me. The train whispered against the stone floor. Papa's arm was solid under my hand. The only real thing in a moment that felt increasingly surreal.
We reached the altar. Dimitri turned to face me fully.
His eyes were gray. Storm-cloud gray. They met mine, and for a second I forgot how to breathe. Not because he was handsome. Not because I was nervous. Because he looked at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Like I was a problem he needed to figure out before I became a threat.
Papa placed my hand in Dimitri's.
His palm was warm. Calloused. The hand of someone who'd worked with them. Fought with them.
"Take care of her," Papa said quietly. Low enough that only the three of us could hear.
"I will." Dimitri's voice was deeper than I'd expected. Rougher.
Papa stepped back and suddenly I was alone. Standing beside a stranger about to promise him my entire life.
The priest began speaking. Latin first, then English. I barely heard any of it. My ears were ringing, and my vision had narrowed to just Dimitri and the altar and the impossibility of what was happening.
"Do you, Giulia Maria Rossi, take this man..."
I opened my mouth. No sound came out.
Dimitri's hand tightened slightly on mine. Not painful, just...there. Solid.
"I do," I managed.
The words echoed in the vast space.
"And do you, Dimitri Alexei Morozov, take this woman..."
"I do."
No hesitation. No doubt. Just two words that changed everything.
The rings appeared. Heavy gold bands that felt like shackles when Dimitri slid mine onto my finger. I did the same for him with shaking hands. The ring caught on his knuckle, and I had to push harder than I meant to. He didn't flinch.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Husband and wife.
Mrs. Morozova.
The priest smiled. "You may kiss the bride."
Oh God. I hadn't thought about this part.
Dimitri turned to face me fully, expression unreadable. Then he lifted my veil with one hand.
I stopped breathing entirely.
He leaned down. His face filled my vision. I could see a small scar near his eyebrow. Could smell his cologne, something expensive and clean.
His lips brushed mine. Barely a kiss, more like a formality, and over in seconds. But my entire body went electric anyway.
He pulled back, eyes searching mine for something. I didn't know what. Then he turned and we were walking down the aisle. Together. Husband and wife.
The cathedral erupted in applause. Polite. Measured. Like everyone was following a script.
We stepped outside into brilliant sunshine. Rice flew through the air as people shouted congratulations that sounded hollow. Cameras flashed until I saw spots.
Dimitri's hand stayed firm on my arm, guiding me, protecting me from the crowd.
Or keeping me from running.
Hard to tell the difference.
The reception was in the desert, in a large, custom white tent with all the amenities. Because Papa never did anything halfway.
The ballroom tent was transformed into something from a fairytale. Thousands of flowers. Crystal chandeliers. Tables set with china that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Russians on one side. Italians on the other. A demilitarized zone down the middle.
Dimitri and I sat at the head table on a dais where everyone could see us, like we were on display. Which I supposed we were. Living proof that this alliance was real.
The first course arrived. Some kind of salad with ingredients I didn't recognize. I pushed it around my plate and tried to ignore the weight of two hundred stares.
Dimitri ate methodically. Cut. Chew. Swallow. Like fueling was just another task to complete. He hadn't looked at me once since we'd sat down. Hadn't spoken either.
I cleared my throat. "The ceremony was nice."
He glanced over. "Yes."
That was it. Just yes.
I tried again. "Saint Patrick's is beautiful."
"Mm."
Apparently, we weren't doing conversation.
Fine. I could sit in awkward silence. I'd had plenty of practice with uncomfortable family dinners. Except this wasn't a family dinner. This was my wedding reception. And my husband was treating me like furniture.
The salad plates were cleared. The main course appeared. Chicken or beef, I'd lost track of what I'd ordered. Everything tasted like cardboard anyway.
Uncle Tony stood to give a toast. He talked about family and tradition and new beginnings. His voice boomed across the ballroom, but I noticed how his hand shook slightly holding the champagne glass. How his eyes kept darting to the Russian side of the room.
Everyone was performing. Playing their parts. Pretending this was normal.
The Russians toasted back. Stilted. Formal. One of them said something in Russian that made his companions laugh but the sound was hollow.
More courses. More toasts. Papa spoke about peace and prosperity. A Russian man whose name I didn't catch talked about strength through unity. It all blended together into white noise.
Dimitri's phone buzzed. He checked it under the table. Frowned. Typed a quick response.
"Everything alright?" I asked.
"Fine."
Back to monosyllables.
I was starting to actively dislike my husband.
The band started playing, and Dimitri stood and offered his hand.
"We should dance."
Not a request. A statement of obligation.
I let him lead me to the dance floor. Every eye followed us. The first dance. Another tradition. Another performance.
His hand settled at my waist. I placed mine on his shoulder.
We were close enough that I could feel the heat of him through his suit.
Close enough to smell that cologne again.
The music swelled and we began moving. He led confidently.
Of course he did. Dimitri Morozov probably didn't do anything without complete confidence.
"You dance well," he said after a moment.
"Thank you. You too."
Silence stretched. We turned in slow circles while two hundred people watched and judged.
"This is awkward," I said finally, because someone needed to acknowledge it.
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Yes."
"We could try having an actual conversation."
"About what?"
"I don't know. Normal things. Weather. Books. Favorite foods. The basics of human interaction."