(NADIYA)
"And now," Aleksander Ivanov, Pakhan of the Komarovski Bratva, the officiant's voice was a calm in the hushed chapel, "The vows. Andrei, please take Nadiya's hands."
I felt a smile touch my lips, a private, incredulous thing.
Andrei. My Andrei.
My hand, when he took it, was trembling. Or maybe it was his own. He gave them a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
His eyes met mine, and the world, the hundred-plus guests, and every other thing simply fell away. There was only him.
"Andrei," Alexander continued. "Repeat after me. I, Andrei Il'ya Petukhov…"
Andrei drew a breath. The most important words he would ever speak today. "I, Andrei Il'ya Petukhov…"
Then a sound. It was baffling.
It wasn't the soft click of a door opening for a late guest. It was a shotgun blast of splintering wood. The grand door of the hall exploded inward and crashed inside in a shower of splinters.
The harp music died. A woman screamed.
A hundred people gasped as one.
He stood in the ruined doorway, a man built from a different, harder world than the one we were in. Leather jacket, scuffed boots. He was all muscle and menace, and he carried a large brown envelope like it were a declaration of war.
Time froze.
***
(A few minutes earlier...)
I can't believe this day has come around so quickly. Yet it feels like I've been waiting forever. I'm standing in the bridal dressing room at Northridge Hall, one of the most prestigious wedding venues in the city.
Staring back at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror wall, I take in how grown-up I look. My face is made up like I'm ready to walk the red carpet, and my wild platinum locks have been teased into loose waves beneath my veil.
In this dress my father bought for me, I look and feel like a fairy-tale princess.
Unlike the medieval-looking wedding gowns worn by descendants of the Brotherhood of Knights, my dress is from a designer's iconic bridal collection.
The strapless draped bodice has a sweetheart neck and a swirling, frothy full-length skirt, which reminds me of the sea of white roses in the courtyard at home.
In a matter of minutes, I'll walk down the aisle to marry Andrei Petukhov, a man known throughout the country for his family's wealth, power, and status.
Even though the contract for our marriage was signed and sealed in blood before I was born, the idea of our union never felt arranged to me.
Not with him.
Although I'm twenty and Andrei is nine years older than me, we've always been close, and I can't wait to marry him.
Everything is perfect. But I'm nervous.
And it's not the wedding or Andrei making me feel this way. It's my nightmares.
They've gotten worse.
Seven months ago, when I started my Psychology degree at Greenwich Bay University, the hellish nightmares I experienced as a child after a car accident returned.
Sleepless nights followed, and I haven't managed to push aside the wretched feeling telling me my nightmares might not really be nightmares, but fractured memories of something horrific that happened to me.
Something different to the car accident, and something more I can't remember from the past.
Just the thought sends a chilling shiver through my body.
The creak of the door draws my attention away from the mirror and my sordid thoughts. When Mira, Andrei's mother, glides in, my spirits lift.
As usual, she looks like a goddess with flawless makeup on her alabaster skin and her salt-and-pepper hair in a perfect chignon.
The elegant emerald gown flowing around her body matches her eyes and makes her look at least ten years younger than her fifty years.
She looks me over, bringing her dainty hands up to her cheeks. "Nadiya, oh my gosh, look at you." The deep emotion in her voice almost overpowers her slight Russian accent. "My dear girl, you look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you."
She pulls me in for a loving hug, and I sink into her embrace.
"No need to thank me, dear. It's true. I couldn't ask for a more beautiful daughter-in-law, or a better one."
"I feel the same about you."
Mira—the lead psychiatrist at Larson Memorial—was not only the inspiration for my career, but she also helped me after my accident.
Because we knew each other, it wasn't therapy; I just checked in with her. She's also been my rock, like a mother to me, since my mom died.
"We're lucky to have each other."
"We are."
She touches the veil, and as I watch her expression, the only word that comes to mind is nostalgic.
"I remember when you first laid your eyes on my veil. You were eight years old, playing dress-up. You asked me if you could have it."
"And you said when the time was right, you'd give it to me." I fill my voice with false pride, pretending I remember what happened like I always do.
"It means so much to me that you remember."
"I know." As lies spew from my lips, guilt writhes in my soul.
The truth is, I don't remember anything. It's normal for people to forget childhood memories, but the accident stole mine.
My parents were told I'd have permanent memory loss, so I have no memories from before I was nine. Nothing whatsoever—not events, or even people.
Eleven years have passed since, and I still feel like I'm walking around in a universe someone made up for me.
Raising me didn't exactly help my mother's depression, and I worried I drove her to kill herself. It must have been awful having a child who can't remember you're their mother.
I push the heartbreaking thought out of my mind along with my nerves and smile at Mira. I promised myself I wouldn't spoil the day by thinking about the past.
I just need to get through today, then find a way to get back on track. The last thing I want is to start my marriage off on the wrong foot when Andrei had so many women falling at his feet.
Mira takes my hands in hers and gives them a gentle squeeze. "Enjoy today, my love."
"I will."
"I'm sorry Misha can't be here." The light in her eyes dims as sadness invades her expression, making her look fragile.
"Me too."
Misha, her husband and Andrei's father, had chronic heart failure. Three months ago, he had a heart attack and has been in a coma ever since.
We wanted to postpone the wedding with the hope he'd get better, but Mira insisted we go ahead because the chances of him coming back to us are slim. She knew Misha wouldn't have wanted us to delay the wedding for him.
"He would have loved to witness your wedding. So, on behalf of both of us, I'd like to welcome you to the Petukhov family."
My heart swells with warmth, and I feel like I'm going to be okay. "Thank you so much. That means a lot to me."
She kisses my cheeks and says, "Munu sterkr smár einn."
I love this blessing of strength in the Old Norse language, the language the Knights still use. I love that women like Mira speak it because of their thoroughbred lineage, which goes right back to the founding fathers from the Viking era.
I dip my head, appreciating her words.
Since I was raised in the Bratva, the only other language I speak apart from English is Russian. But thanks to Mira, I can understand a few Old Norse words.
The door opens again, and my best friend and maid of honour, Yara, walks in. In her long golden bridesmaid's dress that looks like it was painted on her slender frame, and her waist-length ebony hair swishing around her shoulders, she commands the same attention she does in one of her plays.
Although she saw me get ready, awe still brightens her face as she looks at me. It's the same adoration I feel for seeing her look so good, too.
"It's time." She gazes at me, looking proud and excited. "Are you ready?"
Releasing my breath, I nod. "Absolutely."
"Then let's go." Yara beams.
She leads the way out, and Mira and I follow.
We join the wedding party waiting for us by the entrance to the hall where the wedding will be conducted.
I walk toward my father and take his hand. His curly hair, unruly as usual, is smoothed back today.
Despite the crude scar on his cheek, the look gives him a refined edge. Dad looks like the proud man he always shows the world, but nervousness lurks in his eyes.
I understand the nerves. I'm not just his only daughter, I'm his only child.
My dad kept me wrapped in a silk cocoon before Mom died, but after her death, he tucked me away in a glass house, keeping me safe from organisations and mafioso men, and any guy other than Andrei.
I give him a big smile of reassurance, letting him know I'll be okay.
He leans in and kisses my forehead just like he used to do when he tucked me into bed at night.
"You look beautiful, my daughter." His voice holds heartfelt emotion that he never shares with the public. As head of the enforcers in the Bratva, he would never risk showing any weakness.
"Thank you, Dad."
The grand doors open, and harp music plays. The Wedding March filters out into the hallway.
Dad and I link arms, then proceed into the hall.
There are over a hundred guests here who are mostly officials from the Knights, but the moment we step inside, my eyes land on Andrei standing at the altar waiting for me. He looks so handsome and is not nervous at all.
Aleksander Ivanov, leader of the Knights, is in the centre, ready to officiate. Because Andrei's family is part of the elite group in the Knights, Aleksander will marry us.
Next to Andrei are his two younger brothers, Pavel and Sava. Like the rest of the men here from the Knights, they're all wearing the black knight's tunic, which has the silver Greenwich Baycrest embossed on the chest.
I try to focus on how handsome and happy Andrei looks, but seeing him in that uniform reminds me that the Knights are a secret society.
A powerful one dating back to the Viking age, who now owns the Komarovski Bratva. As well as leading the Knights, Aleksander Ivanov is also the Pakhan of the Komarovski and the man we all answer to.
I never tend to think about those parts because everyone is so normal— and of course, no one talks about the Knights unless behind locked doors.
I think of it now because my family has always been part of the Bratva, and my marrying Andrei is a great honour for us. I'll be the bridge that will link my family to the Knights. The same rules and oaths that bind Andrei will bind me, too.
On top of that, Andrei is about to inherit his father's empire and take over his position in the Bratva, so he'll be the Pakhan's second-in-command. As his wife, a lot will be expected of me. I must be proper, obedient, and, most of all, compliant.
When we reach Andrei, Dad gives him my hand, and we face each other. I look into his deep brown eyes, feeling like we were always meant to be.
Aleksander starts with an Old Norse blessing, and I smile as Andrei runs his thumb over my palm.
"Now repeat after me." Aleksander raises his hand and his voice. "I—"
The door at the back of the hall smashes into the wall.
We all turn and stare at a tall, muscular man standing in the doorway. He's at least six feet four with shiny black hair cut into a sharp faux hawk and a neatly trimmed beard covering his chiselled jaw.
He's wearing a black biker jacket and leather pants, which make him look like a drifter. But the lines of muscle along his huge arms suggest he might have served in the military. Or did time in prison.
He walks in carrying a large brown envelope, and his expression is don't-mess-with-me angry. Everything about him is rough and rugged with the potent air of danger I'm used to from the ruthless men in the mafia.
Thick raven brows lower when he gets closer, and Andrei steps in front of me.
The gesture makes the man narrow his eyes and clench his jaw like he's gearing up for a fight.
Despite his menacing vibe, there's a storybook prince thing about him that's alluring and compelling. When his striking hazel eyes meet mine, our gazes lock.
As if he read my mind, his stare intensifies, turning into something scandalous. He does a full sweep of me, giving me an I-could- take-you-if-I-wanted-to look.
For a moment, I'm so lost, I forget where I am.
The stranger, however, doesn't even bother to hide the obvious fact that he's checking me out. Or how inappropriate he is. Surely, he can see I'm about to take my vows.
"This is a private ceremony." Aleksander's voice boomed. His words snap my thoughts back to reality.
The man took a step forward. He held up the envelope. "I'm aware," he said in a low voice, gravelled with an accent I couldn't place. Russian, but from the streets. "I'm here to stop it."
"State your business." Andrei's command sounds like pure menace. The man he'd been a second ago was gone.
The stranger's eyes finally flicked to Andrei. It was a dismissive glance, here and gone. Then they were back on me. He seemed to be drinking in my panic.
"Cristian Petukhov," he said.
Petukhov.
I feel Andrei go rigid beside me. I saw the disbelief, then the cold, shutting-down fury on his profile.
The man's voice drops. "My father is in a coma. My brothers are stealing my inheritance." He pauses, letting the accusation hang for a bit. He bites his jaw, and his stare burns into me. "And my wife."
The word—wife—was so absurd that it short-circuits my brain.
This can't be happening. Especially on my wedding day.
"I object to this wedding." The man's voice sounds like thunder, sending a shockwave through my heart.
"Why?" Andrei's voice is just as demanding, just as powerful.
"This wedding cannot continue because you are not Misha Petukhov's eldest son. I am." He holds up the envelope. "As per this contract, it is me, who is supposed to marry this woman. And me, who is next in line to inherit all that our father owns."
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