Chapter 22 #3
Like I’m in a dream, a terrible one, I begin walking mechanically beside Mikhail toward the altar, where a Catholic priest will officiate the ceremony, even though I am Orthodox Christian.
With a simple request, approved instantly by the priest, it was made possible without me having to change my religion.
Oliver waits for me by the altar with a polite smile on his face, his attire impeccable.
I have always considered him a handsome man and now is no exception.
Only I am also the only one who knows what kind of man he is, and I see him in this moment through different eyes.
I’m certainly not fooled by the wide-eyed innocence he uses to win over the audience.
My steps are heavy, but I try to walk straight, counting in my mind every movement of my feet that could take me in the opposite direction.
I hear whispers behind me, a murmur I ignore as much as I can, because I couldn’t care less about anyone’s opinion, not even when it comes to my beautiful dress.
More than half of these people I don’t even know.
The closer I get to where I’m supposed to stand, the more I realize no one is coming to save me.
In my reality, the question of whether anyone objects to the union does not exist. It is only a line found in movies, one through which cinema has given romantic stories a moment of crisis.
Not today.
Not in real life.
Today, the myth remains nothing but a false idea, one that cannot save me. Nor would there be anyone to do it, because the only man I would want to see right now has been utterly absent for ten days.
Despite the disappointment I felt toward Artem when I left his house, I truly hoped the man I loved would keep his final promise, the one to stop this wedding.
Now, seeing Mikhail beside me, it feels as though his presence is necessary precisely to remind me that everyone – including the last member of my family – wants to make sure everything goes according to plan.
Even the great Vor Leonid, Artem’s father, should be somewhere here, in one of the pews reserved for my guests, while his son is probably in one of the club he owns.
My heart grows heavier, but through the murmur of the guests and with my older brother supporting me, I manage to reach Oliver.
Mikhail continues the ritual, pressing his lips to my forehead over the veil he doesn’t move aside. He smiles to me, but only at the corner of his mouth, the way he used to when he was about to do something that would upset our parents.
Of course he smiles like that. He is handing me over to a bastard who is pretending to be truly happy to see me beside him, before God.
I try to return the smile, but I’m too tense, and I’m sure it comes out all wrong.
“You look wonderful,” Oliver whispers, while Mikhail takes his place in the first pew.
But behind me, I hear Oksana whisper in a voice filled with worry. “Katya. Your dress is covered in blood...”
And in the next moment, chaos erupts.
The priest’s head explodes, spraying blood and small fragments of skull across my veil and dress, staining the delicate feathers red.
Screams break loose, and panic seizes everyone, while I start trembling, locked in shock, staring at my bridal bouquet of white orchids now spattered with blood.
“Nobody moves!” a deep voice booms, with a perfect British accent.
A shadow appears from behind the altar, taking the priest’s place, but the darkness takes shape in my tear-filled eyes the way Death itself would. He comes closer to me, and I try to understand whether he is going to kill me now or make me suffer first.
The man dressed entirely in black, wears a black mask over his face, made of a material with a metallic sheen, hiding his features.
His hands are covered in leather gloves, each holding a pistol with a suppressor, like they were extensions of his strong arms. The only visible strip of skin – at his throat – carries no mark it could help me recognize and understand who is this insane man who has come to destroy a Bratva wedding.
The reason no one moves is that the entire hall is surrounded by other masked men, while three equally mysterious figures advance toward the altar. The height of irony: they are taking the same path I walked only minutes ago. All of them are just as armed, threatening anyone who dares to move.
I have seen death before, back in Russia, but never this close.
It is horrifying.
Cold.
It freezes my blood, while my legs are on the verge of giving out.
The monster who killed the priest positions himself between Oliver and me, while Oliver is now being restrained by another shadow. The killer looks down at me, having several good inches of height over me, but my eyes avoid rising toward the face hidden behind that horrible mask.
He extends one of the guns to someone from his team, then uses that hand to touch my veil, removing a small piece of bone.
“The dress is perfect like this, covered in blood,” the killer tells me softly, just loud enough for only me to hear.
Then he lifts the veil from my face and brings his own close to mine, until only a few inches separate us.
“Isn’t that right, dusha moya?”
My heart stops.
My gaze snaps upward, and confirmation comes when two eyes in different shades of gray and brown meet mine.