32

Mikhail
Today was supposed to be a peaceful day of reckless and obscene spending, but not after what Maria did last night. I keep thinking about the solid steel doors that she breached, and my thoughts turn to the secrets she discovered.
The secrets that no one else can ever be allowed to know.
We wait in silence in the Tatiana Gallery, where we are meeting with our wedding planner. The well-guarded space is situated on the tenth floor of the Waverly Trust building. A bomb left outside would not touch us, but I’m alert to anything out of place. There’s nothing.
It’s filled with timeless works of Russian fine art and relics that once adorned the walls of the aristocratic palaces. Today, their beauty masks the hidden darkness, but I can sense it.
It’s something profound, something dark. Something that speaks to my own turbulent thoughts.
But even those thoughts can’t make me tear my mind away from what I found last night: Maria standing before that painting, her eyes filled with wonder and questions as she examined it, blissfully unaware of what she had really found.
Maria isn’t quite what I expected. Innocent, yes, but there’s a wicked and wild determination in her. Every hour, I wonder if my brigadiers could be mistaken about her and her father. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I can smell the smoke and cordite from the explosion that nearly claimed my life and my sister’s. The explosion that denied a more stable future for the Bratva and claimed both Gaspar and Izzie’s lives.
I cannot be distracted from my goal: to keep Maria by my side until I can draw her father out into the open.
The Lanzzare swear that they weren’t responsible for the bombing, and I believe them. They won’t lie when there’s a chance to gloat.
That means there’s no one else but her father who can claim responsibility. Yet the man refuses to surface.
Budanov … I muse. The name haunts the edge of my memories. It sounds familiar, yet I know nothing about him. The only ones who might know are my brigadiers, and they prefer to keep me in the dark.
Which means Maria is my only hope. But she remains tight-lipped as ever. I’ll need to find another way to pry her open and have her reveal the secrets that she must know.
I watch as Maria wanders around the gallery, her gaze flitting from one piece to another. She’s trying to distract herself from what happened between us.
I shouldn’t have yelled at her. But seeing her in that space triggered something in me. And had it not been for Dominika standing outside of her door like a loyal guard dog, refusing me entry, I would’ve ripped the door off the hinges.
It wouldn’t have been right. But in that moment, I didn’t care.
And that’s what sends waves of shame surging through me every time I look at her. In a single moment of weakness, I nearly became my father.
I nearly became a monster.
Maria stops before an abstract painting, her eyes narrowing as she studies it. The image clashes on the canvas like a lightning storm, sending out bolts of color. It was painted by Kuzma Fedorov, a dissident who-like so many others-died in a Siberian gulag. I wonder what draws her to that particular piece.
Her head tilts to the side, and in the soft light, I notice a spray of faint freckles across her nose that I hadn’t seen before.
“Dobry den, Mikhail Ivanov,” Nina Orlov, the wedding planner, says as she enters. Her voice is melodic, but there’s an edge to it that’s hard to ignore, and it takes me away from my thoughts.
“Dobry den, Nina,” I greet her in response.
Nina’s wedding business caters to the Bratva exclusively. There are countless ostentatious weddings a year to make her financially successful at what she does. Her brief stint in the military ended due to a leg injury, opening an unexpected but lucrative door.
She understands delicate and volatile situations that other wedding planners wouldn’t understand or want to handle.
“If you could have a look at these invitations?” She hands me a binder.
“Of course,” I reply.
I make a face when I see one full of gold flourishes. Gold is gaudy. Gold is loud. Gold is for pretenders who want to project the image of wealth. I pick up one as opposite from that as possible. It’s elegant, refined, and better suited to my tastes.
Nina lifts her chin and then sweeps her dark hair behind her shoulder. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to discuss?” she asks, sensing my unease.
“Actually, yes.” I glance over at Maria, who’s still quietly observing the same painting. A vague smile forms on her soft lips, and briefly I wonder what those lips might taste like. What they might feel like.
I turn back toward Nina, forcing myself to focus on the matter at hand. “I want you to convince me there won’t be any gatecrashers.”
“It all depends on venue, but I assure you that no one will be able to get into the wedding without an invitation, Mikhail Ivanov.” She flips over one of the invitations to reveal a QR code on the back. “And your brigadier, Gunsyn Bolotov, will also be on-site with additional security to ensure nothing goes wrong.”
I nod, but a nagging feeling in my gut won’t go away. Will it be enough? “I also want to talk about?-”
“Discretion? But of course,” Nina interrupts, giving me a knowing look. “Have you met Dima Kuznetsov’s third wife?”
I tilt my head. “I didn’t know he married again.”
“Neither did his ex-wives until the honeymoon.” Nina smiles coolly. “May I suggest a destination wedding, Mikhail Ivanov?” Nina glances over at Maria with interest and curiosity. “Many islands in the Caribbean have GPS spoofers on site and are patrolled by full-time armed staff and?-”
“Actually, Nina.” Now it’s my turn to interrupt her. “I want to talk about the wedding shower.”
“Oh?” she asks. “That’s usually something I discuss with the bride since it is more of a concern for her.” Her eyes turn toward Maria again, a glint of curiosity flashing in them. “I want to see what she has to say about the situation.”
I square my shoulders and almost glare but stop myself just in time. “That won’t be necessary,” I reply firmly.
“But it is.” She flattens her lips. “Especially in light of what has happened to your other events.” Nina stares at me shrewdly, undeterred by my stern gaze as she starts walking toward Maria.
“Have you forgotten who and what you are?” I grab hold of Nina’s shoulder to keep her in place. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten who and what I am?”
Nina glances at my hand wrinkling her silk suit, turns around, and looks over at Maria, who is watching us with an unreadable expression. Maria’s lips part as if I’ve morphed into a hideous monster. But I ignore her for now as I keep Nina rooted in place before me.
“I am aware.” With her other hand, Nina gently lifts my index finger off her shoulder, and I take my hand away. “You are not my first client. But you are the first who refuses to allow me to speak to his fiancee. And that is very interesting to me.”
“My fiancee wants her privacy respected,” I warn her. “I want her privacy respected. Ponimayesh?”
“I understand.” Nina smooths her jacket flat. “But I need you to trust that you can confide in me. In fact, I would prefer it. You’ll find that I like surprises even less than you.” She stares at me. “I am a professional, Mikhail Ivanov. Just like you.”
“So it would seem.” I lean back. “The truth is, this is as political of a marriage as it can get. And for those reasons, I want a unique shower,” I whisper. “One with sufficient privacy that only a select few will need to make an appearance. But with enough clout that it will pass along the grapevine to everyone who needs to know-friends and enemies alike.”
“Ah.” Nina’s deep brown eyes shine, pleased that she has a kernel of truth. “I have handled these situations before. I suggest the private household of one of the Bratva elders. Popov, Sorokin, Barinov. You know the rest. Only the right people will attend. The people you want to know about the wedding will eventually hear about it, but there will be nothing they can do.”
I nod. “Good.”
She smiles graciously as she tucks the sample invitations back into her leather binder. “One last thing. I will need to know your bride’s name. And I will need to greet her, just so that she knows who I am. With your permission, of course, Mikhail Ivanov.”
“Fine.” I nod. “It’s Maria Rostova.”
Nina’s hand stills for a moment. I know what she’s thinking. Rostova is not a name one associates with the Bratva. It’s obviously a fake one, but it’s the only one I have.
Maria’s past is linked to her hometown, Holtsville, and nothing else.
Without another word, Nina gets up and approaches an apprehensive Maria.
Maria’s anxious gaze quickly moves over Nina. Unsure of what is expected, she takes a step forward as she holds her hands behind her back. Her posture makes her look like a colt in a corral. Even though her fashion choices-ankle socks with strappy sandals in the summer-leave much to be desired, I can’t stop staring at her.
Nina boldly offers her hand, and they shake. “Congratulations, Ms. Rostova. I’m Nina Orlov, the wedding planner. If you need my help with anything, your fiance knows how to reach me.” Nina smiles widely and sighs. “You will be a beautiful bride.”
Maria’s smile falters for a second, and the tension in the room seems to gain strength, holding us in place. She glances over at me, and I nod my head ever so slightly.
“Thank you, Nina,” she replies.
Nina pulls her hand away, and nothing else is said until she’s out the door.