Page 6

Kira

T he scent of gardenias and fear mingle in the air as silk rustles against my skin like whispers of a life I'm leaving behind.

The women move around me like ghosts, their fingers cold as they pin and tuck and transform me into something I barely recognize.

The mirror reflects a stranger—porcelain skin dusted with powder, lips painted the color of fresh blood, eyes that seem too bright against the ivory lace cascading from my shoulders.

The couture gown hugs my body like armor, each hand-sewn bead catching the filtered light streaming through St. Olga's stained glass windows.

"Turn your chin up, devochk a," the makeup artist murmurs, her Russian accent thick as honey. Her brush sweeps across my cheekbones, adding shadows where none existed before. "You must look radiant for your husband."

My husband. The words leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Papa's pearls rest heavy against my throat—three strands of Mikimoto perfection that feel more like shackles than jewelry. The clasp presses against my nape like a cold kiss, and I resist the urge to tear them away.

Through the carved wooden door, I hear the low rumble of masculine voices—Mikhail's men positioned like sentinels in the cathedral's hallway.

Their presence should comfort me, but I can't shake the question that's been gnawing at me all morning: are they here to protect me from the enemies circling like vultures or to ensure I don't flee before the vows are spoken?

The stylist's hands work through my auburn hair, weaving it into an elaborate chignon that pulls at my scalp. Each bobby pin feels like a small surrender, securing not just my hair but my fate.

"Hold still," she commands, sliding another pearl-tipped pin into place. I flinch, and she sighs. "Almost finished."

Outside, church bells toll and send tremors through my chest. One hour remains before I walk down that aisle toward Mikhail Zhukov—the man whose name makes the toughest men in Brighton Beach lower their voices, whose reputation precedes him like a shadow stretching across the Atlantic.

"Something borrowed," whispers Irina, Papa's cousin, as she fastens a delicate diamond bracelet around my wrist. Her fingers linger on my pulse point, and our eyes meet in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, I see something like pity cross her lined face. "It was your grandmother's."

I wonder if my grandmother felt this same hollow dread on her wedding day or if she walked willingly into the arms of the monster who would become my grandfather.

"Something blue," says another voice, and a small handkerchief with blue embroidery appears in my lap. I touch it gingerly, feeling the initials—K.Z.—already stitched into the corner. Kira Zhukova, or Zhukova among fellow Russians. My future name weighs heavily on my mind.

The door opens, and the women scatter like startled birds. Viktor, Mikhail's right hand, fills the doorframe, his scarred face impassive as his eyes sweep over me.

"The Father wants a moment with the bride," he announces, stepping aside.

Papa enters, looking dapper in his tailored suit, the silver at his temples catching the light. His presence fills the room, pushing out the air until I feel I might suffocate. The women melt away, leaving us alone with the ghosts of decisions made in back rooms over vodka and blood oaths.

"Kira," he says, his voice soft in a way that only makes me more afraid. "You look beautiful."

I say nothing, meeting his gaze in the mirror rather than turning to face him directly. His reflection seems safer somehow, less real.

"This alliance," he continues, resting his hands on my bare shoulders, "will secure our family's future for generations. The Zhukovs control the ports. We control distribution. Together..." He squeezes gently, his wedding ring cold against my skin.

"Together, we'll be untouchable," I finish for him, the words rehearsed and hollow. "I know, Papa."

His eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but his smile remains fixed. "Mikhail is a good man, and I trust him to take care of you. That's more important than any business, my sweet girl. He'll keep you safe."

A good man who had his friend’s fingers removed one by one for skimming profits. A good man whose name is whispered in nightmares across five boroughs. I've heard the stories— we all have —but Papa pretends they're just tall tales.

"He will protect you," Papa adds, "when I no longer can."

I reach up and touch his hand. Despite everything, I love him. Despite knowing I'm being traded like a prize mare for political advantage, I can't hate him.

"I know, Papa," I say again, softer this time.

A knock at the door signals it's time. Papa offers his arm, and I rise from my chair, the weight of the dress settling around me like a beautiful prison.

"Ready, moya dusha ?" he asks, still referring to me as his heart, even though mine is breaking in two.

I nod, though inside, I'm screaming. As we move toward the door, I catch a final glimpse of myself in the mirror—a bride perfect in every way, except for the terror hiding behind her eyes.

The cathedral doors swing open with a groan that echoes through my bones.

The organ's deep notes wash over me like a tide, and suddenly, I'm drowning in the scent of incense and old wood, in the weight of a hundred expectant gazes turning toward me.

Candlelight flickers across the faces of men I recognize from Papa's dinner parties—men whose smiles never quite reach their eyes, whose wives wear diamonds like armor.

My feet move without my permission, one step after another, down the endless aisle. The train of my dress glides against the stone floor, and I focus on that sound rather than the thundering of my heart. Papa's arm beneath my hand feels solid, anchoring me to this moment I wish I could escape.

But then I see him.

Mikhail stands at the altar like a dark angel carved from marble, his imposing frame filling out a midnight-black suit that must have cost more than most people's cars.

Even from this distance, I can feel the pull of those ice-blue eyes, the way they seem to strip away every defense I've carefully constructed.

His dark hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face, and there's something almost predatory in his stillness as he watches me approach.

The scar that runs from his left temple to his jaw catches the candlelight—a souvenir from the war that claimed his first wife––Papa told me. I wonder if he thinks of her now, if he's comparing me to the ghost I'll never be able to compete with.

Three steps from the altar, my heel catches on the hem of my dress.

I stumble slightly, and Papa's grip tightens, steadying me.

Heat floods my cheeks, but when I look up, Mikhail's expression hasn't changed.

If anything, there's something almost gentle in the way he inclines his head—a barely perceptible nod that somehow feels like reassurance.

Papa places my hand in Mikhail's, and I'm surprised by the warmth of his palm, the calluses that speak of violence and hard work despite his wealth.

His fingers close around mine with surprising gentleness, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne—something dark and expensive with notes of cedar and smoke.

"Dearly beloved," Father Fyodor begins, his voice carrying across the cathedral like a prayer or a condemnation.

I try to focus on his words, but all I can think about is the man standing beside me, the way his thumb brushes almost imperceptibly across my knuckles. It's such a small gesture, barely noticeable, but it sends warmth spiraling up my arm.

When it comes time for the vows, Mikhail's voice is steady, each word pronounced with careful precision. There's no tremor of uncertainty, no hesitation. This is just another business transaction to him, I remind myself. Another deal to be sealed.

But when he says "I do," his eyes never leave mine, and I glimpse something beneath the ice—a flicker of something that might be longing or might be my imagination painting hope where none exists.

My own voice sounds foreign when I repeat the words that will bind me to him. The ring he slides onto my finger is heavy, a perfect circle of platinum and diamonds that catches the light like trapped stars. It fits perfectly—of course it does. Nothing has been left to chance.

"You may kiss the bride."

Mikhail's hands frame my face with unexpected tenderness, his thumbs tracing the line of my cheekbones. For a heartbeat, we're suspended in this moment, and I see something crack in his carefully controlled expression.

Then his lips touch mine, and the world narrows to this single point of contact. The kiss is soft, almost reverent, lasting only seconds but searing itself into my memory. When he pulls away, his eyes search mine as if looking for something he's lost.

The cathedral erupts in applause, but it sounds muffled and distant. All I can hear is the rapid beating of my heart––all I can feel is the lingering warmth of Mikhail's mouth on mine.

Someone calls me Mrs. Zhukov. I am Mrs. Mikhail Zhukov now.

But what does that mean?