Chapter 31
MARIYA
The church bells ring as we pull up to the massive stone building, and I can't help but stare at the ornate architecture. It's beautiful in a severe, imposing way, all dark wood and stained glass that catches the morning light.
"You're serious about this?" I ask, glancing at Andrey in the driver's seat.
He cuts the engine and turns to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "We go to church every Sunday."
"You kill people," I say bluntly. "You run a criminal empire. And you go to church?"
Matvey leans forward from the back seat, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement. "God forgives, Mariya. That's the whole point."
I want to argue and point out the hypocrisy of men who execute traitors in their courtyards kneeling before an altar. But Andrey is already out of the car, moving around to open my door with that controlled grace he always has.
The church is packed when we enter. I recognize the expensive suits, careful postures, and the way people position themselves in family groups. These aren't ordinary parishioners. These are Bratva families, all gathered under one roof.
My pulse quickens as I scan the crowd. Rival organizations sitting in the same building, separated only by wooden pews and whatever unspoken agreement keeps them from tearing each other apart.
Andrey's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me down the center aisle. Matvey follows close behind, his presence a solid wall of protection. We slide into a pew about halfway up, Andrey on my right and Matvey on my left.
I'm surrounded by them, claimed and displayed for everyone to see. I bet that was their intention the whole time.
The service begins, and I try to focus on the priest's words, but my attention keeps drifting to the other families. I catch glares from men I don't recognize, their eyes hard as they assess me. A few women whisper behind their hands, their gazes sharp with curiosity or judgment.
Sophia sits across the aisle with her father. She's wearing a modest dress in deep blue, her dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist. When our eyes meet, her expression shifts into something I can't quite read. Not anger… more like… desperation?
I look away quickly, my stomach twisting with guilt. I'm sure she's thinking how it could be her sitting here next to Andrey if I hadn't been thrust into the picture.
Andrey's hand settles on my thigh, his palm warm through the fabric of my dress. The touch is possessive, deliberate, meant to be seen by everyone watching. I should pull away and maintain some distance. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly into his solid presence.
The priest continues speaking in Russian, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged space. I catch enough to know he's talking about forgiveness, redemption, and the mercy of God.
I wonder if any of these men actually believe they'll be forgiven for what they do.
Andrey shifts beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The heat of his hand on my leg. The way his shoulder brushes mine when he leans forward during prayer. The clean scent of his cologne mixing with incense smoke.
When it's time to stand for communion, Andrey rises and offers me his hand. I take it automatically, letting him pull me to my feet. Matvey stands on my other side, and together we move toward the altar with the rest of the congregation.
I haven't taken communion since I was a child, back when my mother was still alive, and church felt like something sacred instead of strategic. But I follow Andrey's lead, kneeling when he kneels, accepting the bread and wine when it's offered.
The priest's eyes linger on me for a moment, and I wonder if he knows who I am. If he knows who my father is.
Back in the pew, I watch Sophia take communion with her father. She moves with practiced grace, her head bowed respectfully. When she returns to her seat, she glances at me again, and this time I see something that might be sadness in her eyes.
The service ends with a final blessing, and the congregation begins to file out. Andrey keeps his hand on my back as we move through the crowd, guiding me with subtle pressure. People part for us, their expressions ranging from respectful to hostile.
Outside, the morning sun is bright and warm. Families gather in small clusters on the church steps, talking in low voices.
"Andrey." A man approaches, older with graying hair and sharp eyes. He speaks in rapid Russian, gesturing toward me.
Andrey responds in the same language, his tone polite but firm. The man's gaze flicks to me, assessing, before he nods and walks away.
"What did he want?" I ask quietly.
"To know if you're really my wife." Andrey's hand slides to my hip, pulling me closer. "I told him yes."
Heat floods through me at the casual possessiveness in his voice. I should hate it. I should resent being claimed like property. But something in me responds to the certainty in his words and the absolute conviction that I belong to him.
We drive to a park on the edge of the city, a sprawling green space with walking paths and old trees. Andrey parks near a quiet section overlooking a small lake, and Matvey retrieves a basket from the trunk.
"A picnic?" I raise an eyebrow.
"You need to be seen with me," Andrey says, his dark eyes meeting mine. "The families need to understand that you're off-limits."
So this isn't romance. It's strategy. I tell myself I'm relieved, but something in my chest tightens with disappointment.
Matvey spreads a blanket under a large oak tree while Andrey unpacks the basket. There's fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and wine. Simple but elegant, the kind of meal that looks effortless but probably took careful planning.
I settle onto the blanket, tucking my dress around my legs. Andrey sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. Matvey positions himself a few feet away, his attention on the surrounding area rather than us.
"Eat," Andrey says, handing me a plate.
I take it, suddenly hungry despite the tension coiling in my stomach.
The bread is still warm, the cheese sharp and creamy.
We eat in comfortable silence, the sounds of the park drifting around us.
Children playing in the distance. Birds singing in the trees, and the gentle lap of water against the shore.
Other families walk past on the nearby path, and I notice the way they glance at us. Some nod respectfully to Andrey. Others stare at me with open curiosity. A few women whisper behind their hands, their expressions ranging from envious to disapproving.
"They're all watching," I murmur.
"That's the point." Andrey pours wine into two glasses, handing me one. "By tomorrow, every family in the city will know you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat through me again. I take a sip of wine, letting the rich flavor distract me from the way my body responds to him.
After we finish eating, Andrey suggests that we walk. Matvey stays with the blanket, his eyes tracking our movement as we head toward the lake. The path is quiet here, shaded by overhanging branches.
Andrey's hand finds mine, his fingers threading through mine in a gesture that feels almost tender. I don't pull away. Instead, I let myself enjoy the warmth of his palm and the solid strength of his grip.
"There's somewhere I need to go," I say quietly. "The cemetery where my aunt is buried."
Andrey glances at me, his expression unreadable, and then nods.
We stay a couple more hours at the lake. At one point, we even take off our shoes and wade into the water. It's cold and crisp, but it feels good. I close my eyes and imagine the waves rolling over my feet, then retreating, taking my tension and worries with them.
When we get back to our picnic spot, Matvey has already packed everything into the car. He's standing there waiting for us, the blanket neatly folded under his arm. Andrey and I walk hand-in-hand to the car.
The cemetery is quiet when we arrive, rows of headstones stretching across manicured grass. Andrey stays close as I navigate the familiar paths, his presence a solid comfort even though I don't want to need it.
My aunt's grave is near the back, under a willow tree. I kneel beside the headstone, my fingers tracing the engraved letters of her name. There's no message. No sign that my father has been here.
Disappointment settles heavily in my chest. I'd hoped, despite everything, that he might have left some word, some sign that he's thinking of me.
"Mariya." Andrey's voice is gentle. "We should go."
I nod and stand, brushing dirt from my dress. The drive back to the estate is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
That night, I find myself alone in the bedroom, restless and unable to sleep. My mother's jewelry box sits on the dresser where I left it, and I pull it toward me, opening the lid to study the contents again.
The icons catch the lamplight, their painted surfaces gleaming. I lift them out carefully, setting them aside to examine the jewelry.
One ring catches my attention. I've looked at it before, but this time, something about it seems different. It's gold with a topaz stone at the center, surrounded by tiny engraved animals. A lion. A bear. An eagle.
And a raven.
My breath catches. I turn the ring in my fingers, studying the intricate engravings. The raven is so small I almost missed it, tucked between the eagle and the lion.
On impulse, I press my fingernail against the tiny bird.
The ring opens.