Maria
The guest list is limited to the top Bratva families on the East Coast, but we’ll still have three hundred wedding guests in attendance. No expense is spared for our private ceremony and reception. The exclusive venue, the historic Fort Charles, built in the 1700s, is rustic on the outside but modern on the inside to accommodate upscale milestone celebrations.
The bridal suite is opulent-gilded mirrors reflecting the glow of chandeliers, plush velvet sofas adorned with silk throw pillows, and walls bedecked in rich damask wallpaper. A heady scent of white roses fills the air, mingling with the excited laughter of my new friends. I can’t help but feel like a princess as I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my ivory undergarments for my final fitting.
“You look absolutely stunning, koshka.” Dominika fawns over me.
“It’s really happening.” This is it-the moment that will change my life forever.
“The two of you are perfect together,” Larissa reassures me.
Naomi’s three-women staff help me into my wedding dress. As they lace up the back, I marvel at how something so beautiful can feel so suffocating.
The bridal suite door creaks open. And Larissa instantly shouts as Mikhail hovers in the doorway.
“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!”
Grinning, he covers his eyes. “The wedding is tomorrow. Besides, I’m not looking, but I do have a present.”
Mercy appears from behind Mikhail, and I jump off the platform and run toward her. She squeals as she wraps her arms around me, and Naomi’s staff shoo us apart to avoid wrinkling my dress.
“You came.” I hold Mercy’s hand as I introduce her to the other women in the room. I was foolish to think they’d automatically get along, and I wonder if it was wise to do this to Mercy.
“More like I demanded to come, and your-I cannot believe I’m about to call him this-Prince Charming made it happen with my dad’s blessing.” Mercy looks me up and down. “Marie, you look beautiful. And I have something for you from my father.”
Mercy reaches into her leather tote bag. But before she can give me anything, she’s tossed to the ground by a Bratva guard posing as a bridesmaid. Another rushes over, drawing her gun and pointing at Mercy. The small package is ripped out of her hand, and Mercy starts to swear between her moans.
“I think you broke a rib, you Russian bitch.”
“Stop,” Mikhail bellows, and all movement ceases in the room. We stare in his direction as he walks over to the guard and rips the package out of her hand. I run to Mercy and crouch beside her on the floor. She groans softly as I try to help her up, but sheshakes me off to sit up on her own. Bruised but not broken, she glares hot hate at the woman who knocked her down.
“Maria.” Mikhail hands me the package, but he opens the attached card and reads it aloud. “Dear Maria, I disapprove of your wedding, but as a gift, we will not interfere. The pearls belonged to your mother, and she wore them on her wedding day. Blessings to you and your intended. Love, Uncle Vito. P. S. Take care of your cousin.”
The gift wrap is on the floor before Mikhail finishes reading. And I hold up an amazing set of ivory pearls, perfect and delicate. In awe, I hold them in my hands, knowing that my mother once touched them.
“I’m so sorry …” Larissa approaches Mercy, but Mercy holds up her hand.
“Save it. I’m here for my cousin,” she says sternly, “and then I’ll be going. Hopefully in one piece.”
Mikhail reprimands the two guards in harsh Russian but decides to leave well enough alone. He says nothing to Mercy before he exits the room.
I glance over at Mercy, who sits by herself in a corner, her back against the wall, staring at her phone. Larissa sits a good distance away. I had hopes that they might at least get along for the day, but the mutual goodwill from before doesn’t last. They keep a distance and act as expected-like enemies.
“We should have a toast,” I announce as cheerfully as I can fake it. “I deserve a toast before my wedding day.”
“Yes.” Naomi motions toward a staff person. “Go get a bottle of champagne. Be quick.”
The woman disappears and reappears with a bottle of champagne intended for after the ceremony. Mercy frowns at the large bottle of Dom Perignon as Dominika presses her lips tightly together.
“Is that wise?” asks Mercy, looking at Dominika for her opinion. “Besides, Maria needs juice or water.”
Larissa sighs. “Perhaps a bottle of sparkling water instead?” She and Mercy exchange a meaningful glance, and finally, they agree on something.
“It’s not a superstition I’ve ever heard of.” Naomi practically shoves the bottle into the woman’s hand. “Open and pour it.”
It’s awkward, us standing in a little circle, holding our glasses aloft. But Mercy softens when she sees my hurt expression and rises to the challenge with a toast. “To the prettiest bride I’ve ever seen. You’ve got guts, Marie, more than I gave you credit for. Keep chasing your dreams and getting them. Here’s to you and Prince Charming.”
“Cheers,” a chorus of voices respond as we all take a sip. Soon, the glasses are empty and refilled, and the tension slips away, replaced with laughter as Larissa makes a toast. “To my soon-to-be sister-in-law, welcome wholeheartedly to my family. It feels like you have been missing all this time, and you have finally arrived. All my blessings.”
Larissa smiles warmly at Mercy. “I am sincerely sorry. Bravery must be in your family genes.”
Mercy smiles at the compliment. “No harm, no foul. Maria is happy, and I’m happy to be here to see she will be okay.” Mercy raises her glass. “To love, wherever you find it. And may it always save the day.”
We all join in. “To love.”
My wedding dayis unseasonably cool and feels like a mild fall day instead of the end of summer. At sunrise, Mercy and I sneak around the massive fort with four guards tagging along, admiring the potted plants and tall vases of cut flowers camouflaging the generic walls. The arrangements tower over us and give off the impression that we’re on a tropical island and not near Niagara Falls.
“It was Larissa’s idea,” I explain to Mercy, who gawks at a display of live birds of paradise in full bloom. “I asked for a destination wedding only because I thought it would be safer.”
“You’re probably right,” Mercy whispers, leaning close to my ear. “I don’t want to upset you, but don’t be surprised if something happens today.”
“I won’t be surprised,” I reply dejectedly. “As long as I am married to Mikhail and everyone is safe, it will be okay.” Mercy makes a face, and I grip her arm. “Do you know something?”
“I’m being ostracized for coming, Marie,” she confesses. “My dad warned them not to do anything stupid. But …”
“But?” I ask sternly.
“Nobody can make promises about your dad.”
As if to prove the point, a guard rounds the corner and eyes us suspiciously. Mercy scowls back, not intimidated by the holster under his open jacket.
“Just checking out the flowers, dude.” She pats his broad shoulder as we walk off. “Keep up the good work.”
“You have to tell Mikhail!” I walk after her.
“Don’t worry, Marie,” she replies. “I’m sure he already expects something.”
We continue into the other rooms, followed at a distance. The constant scrutiny threatens to ruin my mood, but it’s necessary if we want nothing to happen. In the kitchen, an army of cooks prepares a gigantic buffet, big enough to feed a nation. We exit through the dining area, passing numerous small tables with pristine white cloths and costly place settings of silver and crystal. Each table is adorned with a smaller version of my bouquet of chrysanthemums and pale yellow roses.
In the reception hall, metal chandeliers hang from the ceiling and cast intertwined shadows onto the stone floor below. Ivory silk drapes frame the tall windows, allowing soft sunlight to filter through. Tables adorned with lavish floral arrangements encircle the dance floor, and their strong scent mingles in the air.
By the time we round another corner, the number of guards has grown to six. Mercy stops short, and they do the same, causing two men to collide with each other, barely stopping in time.
“Mercy, this is not a game.”
“Sorry,” she tones down her smile. “I’m just in a fucked-up mood.” She takes my hand. “We better get ready to march down the aisle.”
I smile at the guards. “Please escort us back to our rooms.”
He nods, and we follow behind him.
“I appreciate you being here,” I speak softly. “But you’re the interloper, so watch your step.”
“So are you, Marie.” She frowns at the scowling guard. “Until that ring is on your damn finger.”