We have only a month to plan the wedding.
That doesn’t matter to me, because I don’t give a shit about the ceremony. It seems to matter a lot more to Alexei Yenin, who insists that it be a “traditional Russian wedding” in most respects.
To that end, he pays for a wedding planner to carry out his demands, and Yelena and I go along with it, not particularly caring whether we’re married in an Orthodox Church, in a garden, or on a street corner.
Both families agree to keep it small, to avoid any unpleasantness between the Italian families and the Bratva. If we invite one of the other mafia families, we’ll have to invite them all. And there’s no way they’ll be able to keep peace with the Russians who have a complicated, bloody history in Chicago.
Yenin doesn’t even want the Griffins invited. He says it will be impossible for the soldiers who worked under Kolya Kristoff to stand in the same room as Fergus Griffin without seeking retribution.
Papa calls Fergus to discuss this problem, and Fergus agrees that it’s better not to risk sparking tempers.
“I’m not offended,” he says to Papa. “I can send my congratulations from afar.”
To me, Fergus says, “Go maire sibh bhur saol nua.” May you enjoy your new life.
The thorny part of this is that Aida is now, technically, a Griffin too. Her husband Callum definitely is, and their little son Miles.
I’m ready to argue with Yenin on this particular point—I don’t want to get married without my one and only sister in attendance. But it’s Aida who calls me, having heard about the issue from the Griffins.
“It doesn’t matter, Seb,” she tells me. “I really don’t mind.”
“Don’t be stupid. I want you there.”
“I know you do,” she says. “And that’s what matters to me. But the ceremony itself . . . trust me when I say, it’s not that important. Remember my wedding? It was a disaster.”
I grin, because she’s right. Aida and Callum loathed each other on their wedding day. Aida was forced into some godawful princess gown, and she made Callum wear a hideous brown satin suit. You could see them glaring daggers at each other as Aida marched down the aisle. Then when Callum seized her for the least-passionate kiss any of us had ever witnessed, he started to choke and fell down in front of the altar, because Aida had laced her lips with strawberries, to which Callum is severely allergic.
The wedding ended with a trip to the emergency room.
And yet, three years later, they couldn’t be happier together.
“It’s the marriage that matters, not the wedding,” Aida tells me. “I’ll see you every day after. I mean,” she laughs, “Not every day. But enough to watch you and Yelena fall more and more in love.”
All through this conversation, my throat feels tight.
My wild and impulsive sister has changed.
“When did you get so wise?” I ask her.
Aida snorts. “I don’t know about wise,” she says. “But a baby tires you out enough that you don’t have quite the same energy to be an asshole.”
The most annoying thing about the lead-up to the wedding is that Yenin seems determined to keep Yelena and me apart as much as possible. I don’t know if he thinks it will prevent me from “getting tired of her” before the wedding day, but if that’s the case, he’s misguided. The more time I spend with Yelena, the more I want. I only find more things to admire about her.
She’s extremely well-read, almost as much as my father. In fact, on one of the rare occasions where she’s allowed to join Papa and me for brunch, they spend almost the entire time discussing Italian novels.
“I don’t think you can beat The Name of the Rose,” Papa says. “Literary theory, semiotics, medieval studies, and a mystery as well . . . what more could you want?”
“I would never argue against Umberto Eco,” Yelena says, smiling. “Though I don’t like Foucault’s Pendulum as much.”
“Why not?” Papa demands.
“I hate conspiracy theories.”
“But he describes the descent into false belief so accurately—”
“I know! That’s why I hate it. It’s so depressing to see how irrational we can be as humans . . .”
I love watching them argue with each other. It reminds me of how Aida used to fight with Papa, or how my mother did. I’ve always loved women who aren’t afraid to speak their minds. Who know what they think and what they believe in.
In my family I’ve been considered the kindest sibling, the most amenable one. But I can be passionate too, and insanely focused, when it’s something that really matters to me. I could never be with someone who doesn’t have that same spark, that same fire.
I had hoped to be able to get to know Yelena’s brother better, because I know how important he is to her. However, he refused the invitation to join us at brunch.
“Was he busy this morning?” I ask Yelena lightly.
She’s looking particularly stunning today, with her silvery hair loose around her shoulders, and her cheeks are flushed from sitting out on the outdoor patio, only half-shaded from the sun.
She frowns at my question. “No,” she admits. “He wasn’t busy. I think he’s sulking about the wedding. He’s been avoiding me all week.”
“Doesn’t think I’m good enough for you?” I say, giving Yelena a quick kiss. “He’s probably right.”
Yelena smiles at me, but her eyes look troubled.
“It’s not that,” she says. “Maybe it’s because I’m escaping, and he’s not. But his situation isn’t the same as mine. He’s the heir, and I’m . . . the bargaining chip.”
“Not to me,” I assure her. “Not to my family.”
Papa has gone to the restroom, so he isn’t present for this part of the conversation. Yelena looks at his empty chair, then grabs my hand and squeezes it hard.
She says. “Will they really accept me?”
“Yes,” I assure her. “We all love Callum now. Even me. And I’ve got more reason than anybody to hold a grudge.”
Yelena lets a little sigh, not entirely convinced.
“I wish we were getting married today,” she says.
“Me too,” I say, kissing her again. “Only a little longer.”
If Adrian is the dark spot on Yelena’s excitement, I soon get one of my own.
Dante calls me from Paris at midnight my time, seven o’clock in the morning for him.
“Hey!” I say. “When are you flying back for the wedding?”
“I’m not,” he says gruffly.
“What do you mean?”
I can hear his disapproval radiating through the phone. “This is a bad idea, Seb.”
I was expecting this, but still, my face gets hot, and I have to struggle to keep my tone even and unemotional.
“Why?” I say. “Because she’s Russian?”
“Because her father is a fucking psychopath. He’s got a reputation even among the Bratva. Do you know how far past the line you’ve gotta be for the Bratva to think you’re scary?”
“He signed a blood contract.”
“Yeah? And you think that wiped his memory?”
“He can’t do anything. He has to abide by the agreement the same as we do.”
I can hear Dante’s slow, heavy breath on the other side of the line.
“We shouldn’t have taken that diamond,” he says. “We insulted their honor.”
“They don’t know we stole the stone.”
“You don’t know what they know,” Dante growls.
“Well you don’t either!” I cry. “Because you’re not here. You’ve got your wife and your kids and your new life. And I’m happy for you, Dante, I really am. But the rest of us are still here, doing the best we can. I love Yelena. I’m going to marry her. And I want you to be there.”
There’s a long silence in which I’m not sure if Dante is even going to respond.
At last he says, “I’m sorry, little brother. I wish you all the happiness in the world. But I promised Simone that I was done with violence. I want to move away from all that. And I can’t help but think you’re diving feet first into a whole new pile of shit.”
I’m so angry that I think I’d hit him, if he were standing here in front of me.
“Fine,” I hiss. “That’s your decision.”
“Yes,” Dante says. “It is. We all make our own decisions, and we live with the consequences.”
I hang up the phone, tempted to throw it across the room instead.
Goddamn Dante with his stiffness and his obsession with caution. He’s a fucking hypocrite. Simone’s father hated him, too, and that didn’t stop him from chasing after the woman he wanted. He knows what it feels like to be in love! He could never walk away from Simone, and I won’t give up Yelena.
If he wants to miss the wedding, that’s his problem.
I’ll be standing there at the altar, right where I’m supposed to be.
