by Anna Zaires
“Also good. I got this new car for us.” I nod toward the black Mercedes S-560 behind me. At first glance, it looks like any other luxury sedan. A closer inspection, however, would reveal that the windows are made of bulletproof glass and that the metal frame is unusually sturdy.
It cost me a pretty penny, but it’s worth it. I’m not expecting anyone to shoot at us, but one never knows. Plus, this car is pretty much indestructible in a crash—something that’s very important to me after what happened with Sara in Cyprus.
“Nice,” she says, even as a tiny frown forms between her eyebrows. “What about my old Toyota?”
“I sold it.”
She steps out of my hold, her frown deepening. “You didn’t think to consult me?”
I’m tempted to haul her to me and kiss her again until she forgets whatever it is that upset her about this. However, we’ve put on enough of a show for the passersby, so I just ask, “Were you attached to that car, my love? I can get it back if it has some sentimental value.”
That doesn’t seem to please her either. “No, I don’t care about the car. It’s just…” She squares her shoulders and looks me in the eye. “Peter, I need you to involve me in decisions that affect me—that affect us both. You told me once that this can be a partnership if I wanted, and I want that now. It’s important to me.”
I consider her words and nod. “Okay.”
She blinks. “Okay?
“I’ll ask you before I do anything else with the car,” I say and open the passenger door. Clasping her elbow, I help her inside, my jeans growing uncomfortably tight as I catch a glimpse of pale blue underwear when she swings her shapely legs inside.
We might need to reevaluate this dress as a staple of her work wardrobe.
“I’m not just talking about the car,” she says when I get behind the wheel. “It’s about everything—like wedding arrangements and where we’re going to live and what you’re going to do work-wise. I want us to make all those decisions together going forward, like any normal married couple.”
“I understand.” I carefully check the mirrors and pull out onto the street. “You want me to consult with you like a husband should. I get it.”
“You do?” She sounds puzzled for some reason. “I thought that—never mind. I’m glad you get it.”
I smile and lay my right hand on her slender thigh, enjoying the silkiness of her bare skin. If my ptichka wants me to consult her about such trivia as the car or what I’m going to do with my time, I’m glad to do so.
We can make all the decisions together as long as she understands one simple fact.
She belongs to me, for the rest of our lives.
60
Peter
Saturday morning dawns warm and clear, with the kind of blue, cloudless sky I would’ve ordered from a wedding catalog if I could. The weather was the one uncontrollable variable, but as luck would have it, it’s cooperating, so the event should go off without a hitch.
I’ve made sure of that.
Organizing a wedding is not all that different from planning a hit, I’ve come to realize. You have to be just as methodical about the logistics, and prepare for all eventualities. Of course, the stakes are very different, but it’s good to see that some of my skills are applicable in the civilian life.
Esguerra was wrong.
I’m going to make this work.
Sara and I will be happy here.
Her hair and makeup appointments aren’t until ten, and I wore her out last night, so I let her sleep while I make breakfast. Then I return to the bedroom with a steaming cup of coffee in my hands.
She either hears me or smells the coffee, because she rolls over onto her back, one slender arm splaying out across the mattress while the other hand scrunches into a delicate fist to cover a big yawn. “Is it morning?” she mumbles without opening her eyes, and I grin as I sit down on the edge of the bed and set the cup of coffee on the nightstand.
“Yes, my love.” Leaning in, I nuzzle the warm, fragrant crook of her neck. “It’s our wedding day.”
Her hair smells sweet and faintly fruity, like the shampoo in her shower. It makes my mouth water. Unbidden, my hand slips under the blanket, closing around one soft, round breast, and my cock hardens, my breathing speeding up as her erect nipple stabs my palm.
Fuck. There’s no time for this—not to mention, she might still be sore from the three times I took her last night.
I force myself to straighten and move my hand away. “Your breakfast is ready,” I say thickly and stand up, adjusting the uncomfortable bulge in my jeans. I need to cool off before I attack her right here and now, breakfast and wedding appointments be damned.
“Hmm.” She yawns again and sits up, holding up a blanket to cover those tempting breasts. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she focuses on the cup sitting on the nightstand. “Is that coffee?”
“You bet. And there’s breakfast in the kitchen—a vegetable quiche and home fries. You’ll need the fuel to last you through the day.”
She grins at me. “You’re amazing.”
My heart clenches—and my cock twitches again—as she jumps out of bed naked and beelines for the bathroom, apparently invigorated by the promise of caffeine and food. This is what I’ve wanted, what I’ve fought for all this time: Sara like this, playful and affectionate with me. We’ll never be able to erase the darkness of the past, but together, we can build a lighter future.
A future that still feels terrifyingly fragile for some reason.
I shove the thought away as soon as it surfaces. There’s no reason to assume that this kind of morning is temporary, that it’s anything other than the start of our new life.
Today is our wedding day, and I’m going to make sure it’s the best one ever.
It’s the least my ptichka deserves after everything I’ve done.
61
Sara
The invasion begins just as I finish gobbling down the breakfast Peter prepared for me. What feels like an army of stylists, makeup artists, and hairdressers descends on my tiny one-bedroom apartment, filling the living room with enough hair products, garment bags, and pots of eyeshadow for fifteen brides—or drag queens. Pam and Suzie, the women who measured me for a dress, are there, but so are two of their assistants and at least four hairdressers and makeup people. It’s hard to tell exactly how many with all of them coming in and out of the apartment to bring the ever-mushrooming amount of supplies.
Peter promptly abandons me to the torture, claiming that he needs to oversee the security arrangements and other logistics at Silver Lake. His own tux is getting delivered straight there, so I won’t even get a chance to see him in it until Danny brings me there later this afternoon.
“So not fair that all you have to do is put on a nice suit,” I complain, mock-pouting, and he grins, then drops a quick kiss on my lips, making my pulse jump.
“Behave or else,” he warns, silver eyes gleaming with amusement, and I pinch his side in revenge, making him laugh and kiss me again.
“Hair first,” a flamboyantly dressed young man announces as soon as Peter leaves, and I let myself be guided to the couch where an array of scary-looking styling tools are already spread out in a row.
My hair is still wet from my morning shower, so it’s first blow-dried into submission, then flat-ironed and curled. The updo apparently requires a perfectly smooth cuticle, which my wavy hair doesn’t naturally possess. While that’s happening, my nails are buffed, trimmed, and painted a soft pink shade, and then it’s time for my makeup.
Mom shows up just as the last of the mascara is applied to my lashes. She’s already coiffed to the max and dressed in a long peach dress that emphasizes her still-trim frame.
“Wow,” she breathes as I get up from the couch, and I grin, walking over to hug her.
“You look amazing, Mom.” I draw back to give her a thorough once-over. “I love this dress. When did you get it?”
“Your fiancé had it delivered last n
ight. It’s Chanel. Can you believe it? I was just lamenting to your dad yesterday morning that I wouldn’t find anything decent on such short notice, and then bam, this dress arrives—and magically fits. Can you imagine? Your dad got a new tux too.” She sounds as excited as a teenager going to prom.
“Wow, yeah. That’s amazing.” Peter must’ve installed cameras and/or listening devices at my parents’ place again—an invasion of privacy we’ll need to discuss. For now, though, I’m grateful he was thoughtful enough to include my parents in his insanely thorough brand of wedding planning.
Mom loves to dress up and would’ve been gutted if she’d had to wear an older dress or something she didn’t find sufficiently special.
“How’s Dad?” I ask as Pam and Suzie shoo everyone else out of the apartment and make me strip down to my underwear to try on the dress.
“He’s good. Still processing all this, but—” Mom gasps as she sees the dress. “Wow, Sara. That’s gorgeous!”
“It’s Monique Lhuillier,” Pam proudly tells her as Suzie helps me put it on and fastens the buttons in the back. “All handmade lace—every inch of it.”
“Sara, that’s…” Mom blinks several times, then audibly sniffles. “Darling, you look so beautiful… simply out of this world, like some kind of fairy princess.”
“Really? Let me look.” I wait until Suzie adds the hairclips, then walk over to the mirror in the bathroom.
A striking beauty stares back at me, her green-flecked eyes huge and mysterious in her flawless face. And it is flawless. The forehead scar from my crash—almost invisible these days anyway—is completely gone, and my skin is as smooth and poreless as glass. An hour of makeup, and I look like I’m scarcely wearing any—except that every feature appears as perfect as if it had been Photoshopped.
The hair is what gives the princess impression. Piled high on the crown of my head, it’s an artful arrangement of curls and waves, each strand so shiny and smooth I hardly recognize it as my own. Even the color—dark brown with hints of red—is richer and brighter next to the diamond clips, though it could just be the extra glossiness imparted by all those products.
Pam was right about the updo: it’s exactly what this dress needed. The lace gives the sleek mermaid dress an ethereal quality, yet it’s only in combination with the intricate hairstyle that it takes on that magical, fairy-like look that got my mom all teary-eyed.
As I stare at myself in the mirror, my throat constricts.
I’m getting married.
To Peter.
Today.
The wave of panic is as spontaneous as it is irrational. Sucking in a gasping breath, I shut the bathroom door and lean against it, forgetting all about the fragile lace. My heart is like a war drum in my chest, my breath coming in rapid, shallow pants.
I’m getting married. To Peter.
I don’t understand the source of my panic, but that doesn’t make it any less intense. I can feel icy sweat popping out on my forehead and dampening my armpits, and it’s all I can do to remain upright instead of sinking to the floor.
Peter and I are getting married.
“Sara?” Mom knocks on the door, sounding worried. “Are you okay, darling?”
Am I? I should be okay. I should be over the moon, in fact. I’m marrying the man I love, one who’s gone to incredible lengths to show me that he loves me… to make me happy despite our inauspicious start.
Is that the issue? Is some part of me still unable to get past what Peter has done?
The flawless face in the mirror holds no answers, so I take a couple of deep breaths and steady my voice. “I’m fine, Mom. Just got a bit of an upset stomach.”
“Oh, you poor darling. Do you have any Pepto-Bismol in the house?”
“No, but I’m fine. Just give me a second.” I take a few more deep breaths, and when my heart is no longer jackrabbiting in my chest, I wet a towel and rub under my arms. I then reapply anti-perspirant and pat at the top of my hairline with a tissue, taking care not to smear my makeup.
When the mirror confirms that there are no traces left of my impromptu panic attack, I paste a smile on my lips and step out, assuring Mom yet again that I’m fine.
We return to the living room, which is now startlingly empty.
“They all left,” Mom says, smiling at my look of surprise. “While you were in the bathroom.”
“Oh.” I look at the clock and am shocked to see that it’s already two in the afternoon.
No wonder Peter wanted to make sure I ate a hearty breakfast.
“The ceremony starts at four, but Peter said the photographer is coming at three for family pictures,” Mom says. “So we should head over there. Your dad is already on his way.”
“Right, okay.” I curl my hand into a fist to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. My throat still feels too tight, and the thought of it all—the pictures, the ceremony, everyone staring and gossiping—is unbearable, completely overwhelming.
“Mom…” I press my hand to my stomach, which is now genuinely unsettled. “You know, I think I do need some medicine. There’s a pharmacy a block away, so I’ll just—”
“What? No, don’t be crazy.” Mom all but pushes me toward the couch. “You can’t go anywhere dressed like this. Sit here, relax, and I’ll be right back, okay?”
“No, Mom, that’s fine. I’ll just slip out of the dress and—”
“Sit.” Mom’s tone brooks no disagreement. “I may be old, but I can walk a block. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and you just sit and rest, okay? Maybe eat something, too—you might have low blood sugar.”
That’s actually a good point. As soon as Mom leaves, I go to the kitchen and pop a few leftovers into the microwave. I remember this from my first wedding: being too busy to eat and feeling faint. This time, there’s much less to worry about, thanks to Peter overseeing everything, so I actually have a few minutes to grab a bite.
The photographer can wait.
The doorbell rings just as I’m taking the pasta out of the microwave.
“It’s open, Mom,” I yell, grabbing a towel to make sure I don’t burn myself with the hot plate, and then I realize it’s far too soon for her to have returned.
Did one of the makeup people forget something?
Setting down the plate of pasta, I step out of the kitchen and freeze in place.
Agent Ryson is in my living room, his gaze raking over my white dress with derision.
62
Peter
“You’ve actually pulled it off,” Anton says admiringly as I adjust my black tie in the mirror. “Civilian life, amnesty, the girl, and all. I fucking can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” I turn around and grin at my former teammates. “How do I look?”
“Not bad.” Yan walks around me, studying me critically. “I would’ve gone with a white tie, though. More formal and goes better with your skin tone.”
Anton rolls his eyes at him. “Stop being such a fucking metrosexual. Seriously, Ilya, what did your mother feed this one?”
“Same crap she fed me,” Ilya says and steps in front of the mirror to adjust his own tie. Unlike his elegant twin, who looks like he was born to wear a suit, Ilya resembles nothing more than a thug playing dress-up. The jacket strains across his steroid-enhanced shoulders, and the tattoos on his shaved skull gleam menacingly in the bright daylight.
Sara’s father might have a heart attack just looking at him—and that’s without knowing about the arsenal hidden inside his jacket.
Inside all of our jackets.
There’s no real reason to worry, of course, but I’m still uneasy. Back in the good old days, events like this, especially in an outdoor venue, often provided an opportunity for us. Weddings, birthdays, funerals—we loved them all, because our targets, caught up in all the excitement, would invariably forget some key aspect of security.
It’s a mistake I have no intention of making, which is why in addition to my usual Sara-watching crew, I’ve hired twenty more
bodyguards and commissioned aerial surveillance via a dozen drones.
No one is getting within a kilometer of the venue without my knowledge.
“So, how’s the civilian life so far?” Yan asks, falling into step beside me as I head outside to check if the photographer has arrived. “Is it everything you’ve dreamed of?”
His tone is mocking, as usual, but when I look at him, I don’t see any amusement on his face.
“Yes,” I answer, deciding to take the question at face value. “You should try it sometime.”
He chuckles, but the sound lacks humor. “No, thanks. I’m enjoying this life too much.”
I nod, not the least bit surprised. Instead of taking advantage of the amnesty I got for him, Yan took over the business—files, shell corporations, team accounts, and all—and has been using the team’s contacts to secure new, ever more lucrative gigs. The takeover happened the day after I left for Esguerra’s compound, which means Yan had been planning it for a while.
I was right to be wary.
If I hadn’t stepped down when I did, one of us would likely be dead.
As expected, Ilya joined his brother in the new venture, but Anton is still deciding.
“I’m already fucking rich, you know,” he told me on the phone two weeks ago, when Yan prodded him for an answer again. “I might miss the excitement and all, but I don’t need more money—not the way Yan seems to.” He paused, then asked carefully, “You’re not mad at him, are you?”
“No,” I told Anton, and I meant it. I told the guys they can carry on with the business if they want, so what do I care if Yan had been planning to step in my shoes all along? None of us are angels, and deep down, I always knew that Yan wouldn’t be content following orders for long.
Even back in Russia, there were hints of that—a red flag I ignored when I offered the Ivanov twins a place on my new team.
In the context of my old world—our world—Yan Ivanov had been loyal enough, and since we avoided the ultimate clash, it makes sense to remain on good terms.