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She’s silver-haired, elderly, the warmth of someone’s favorite grandmother coming off her in waves. Lorenzo’s mother-in-law, I think, though I don’t know her name. She squeezes my hands with a grip that’s stronger than it looks.

“What a beautiful bride,” she says, looking at me with eyes that are very clear for someone her age. Then she leans in slightly, and her voice drops to something meant only for me.

“Empires built on blood never forget their debts.”

She releases my hands, still smiling, still warm, and before I can find a single word she’s moved away into the crowd, stopped to straighten a centerpiece, said something to a passing staff member, already absorbed back into the background like she was never standing in front of me at all.

I stand with the champagne I still haven’t touched and turn the sentence over once, twice. An old woman’s saying. Something about the weight of history, the cost of power. A sentiment delivered at a wedding, which is, if you think about it, exactly the right place for that kind of thing.

I drink the champagne and stop thinking about it.

Marka appears at my elbow twenty minutes later. He’s been somewhere nearby all evening, I’ve been aware of him the way I’m aware of all the security in a room now, not intrusive, just present.

“It’s time,” he says.

“For what?” I ask.

Marka looks at me. “You’re a married woman now. Figure it out.”

I set the empty glass on a passing tray. “He couldn’t come find me himself?”

“He’s waiting upstairs,” Marka says. “That’s how it works.”

I follow Marka to the stairs. At the bottom, he stops, and I go up alone.

The bedroom door is closed. I put my hand on the handle and stand there for exactly three seconds, which is the amount of time I’m allowing myself for this, and then I open it and walk in.

The man on the other side of that door killed my father. I know that. I haven’t forgotten it for a single hour since I found out his name. Whatever happens in that room tonight, I won’t forget it then either.

He’s already there.

8

Volkov

I hear her on the stairs.

I’m already in the room, jacket off, sitting on the edge of the bed, and I hear her stop outside the door. A pause. Three, four seconds. Then the handle turns.

She walks in.

Still in the dress. Hair still up from the ceremony. She takes in the room, her face an emotionless mask. She closes the door behind her.

I think about Lavro for one second. Just one. He would’ve had something to say about this, about me sitting on the edge of a bed waiting for Berezin’s daughter on my wedding night. Something short and cutting and probably right. I don’t let myself finish the thought.

“I’m not going to force you.” One sentence. Done. I’m not saying it again.

She stays by the door. Her eyes drop to me once, quick, then she pulls her gaze back up to my face.

“Good,” she says.

“But I want you.” I stand up. “And you want me. So let’s not waste the night pretending otherwise.”

“You’re very confident,” she says.

“Da.” I loosen my cuffs. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She doesn’t. She stands there, hand still on the door handle, chin up, saying nothing. The fact that she’s not arguing with me tells me everything.