I wait for him to finish, and when he glances at me, I say, “Your brothers… Have you told them about the wedding?” It’s just occurred to me that I haven’t yet met my new brothers-in-law, and they may have no clue that I’m now part of the family.
Nikolai gestures toward the videographer, who’s discreetly circling around the table with his camera. “Valery and Konstantin are getting the live feed, and they’ll videocall in a bit to congratulate us.”
Of course. He’s thought of everything. Why am I even surprised? Organizing a wedding in a matter of hours must be child’s play compared to planning a high-profile assassination. Not that the latter is happening any longer—at least if Nikolai keeps his word.
With effort, I refocus on the celebration, which reminds me a lot of Alina’s birthday, only with all the toasts directed at me and Nikolai. The majority of them are given by Pavel and Lyudmila, who seem determined to outdo each other with well wishes, but Alina raises her glass a couple of times too, first to wish us a long and happy marriage and then to toast to me as “the sister she’s always wished to have.”
She’s had at least four shots of vodka by this point, I know, but her words still touch me, tugging at that small, secret part of me that’s always wanted a sister too.
Maybe being a Molotov won’t be so bad. Gaining a family—even a mafia family—might be worth it.
My tentative enthusiasm lasts through the main course and dessert, fueled by several glasses of wine and two shots of vodka. Everyone around me is happily buzzed as well, with the exception of Slava and Nikolai.
Like at Alina’s birthday, I get the sense that alcohol only sharpens my new husband’s faculties, that vodka is more like Red Bull or coffee for him. Or maybe it’s simply that it strips away some of his polished, elegant façade, the one he uses to veil the potent force of his personality, that dark intensity that simmers within him and seeks to bend everything and everyone to his will.
To bend me, molding me into what he wants me to be.
His wife. His possession. His in every way… because the ring on my finger is a cage, one from which there’ll be no escape.
The realization should frighten me—and normally it would—but alcohol doesn’t act like Red Bull for me. Instead, it paints my world in warm, blurry shades, like the watercolor of a sunset—which is why I don’t object when Nikolai pulls me onto his lap, where he feeds me chocolate-covered strawberries by hand while we talk to his brothers on a laptop Pavel brings to the table.
Konstantin calls in first, his lean face so reminiscent of Nikolai’s my heart skips a beat when it first appears on the screen. Upon closer examination, however, the differences become apparent. Konstantin’s nose is slightly larger and more hooked, his strong chin boasts a cleft, and his eyes are set deeper within their sockets, their striking color hidden behind his black-rimmed glasses. More importantly, his lips lack the cynical, wicked curve of Nikolai’s, though they’re just as beautiful in their own austere way.
For some reason, it’s easy to picture Nikolai’s older brother as a warrior monk, transcribing ancient scrolls by hand in between decimating hordes of invading barbarians.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” he tells us. His voice is deep, like Nikolai’s, his accent perfectly American. I wonder if he also studied here in the States. “I’m happy for you both.” His gaze homes in on me. “Welcome to the family, Chloe.”
“Thank you. It’s so nice to meet you.”
We exchange a few more pleasantries as Nikolai feeds me the strawberries, his arm looped possessively around my ribcage, and it’s not until Konstantin hangs up that I realize he didn’t react in any way to the sight of me being held on his brother’s lap and fed like a child. There was no teasing smile, nothing to indicate he’d even been aware of it.
It’s as if we’ve just spoken to an AI instead of a human being—which, given what I’ve heard about Konstantin’s IQ and tech genius, is not out of the realm of possibilities.
Valery is up next, and the vibe I get from him is completely different. If possible, Nikolai’s younger brother looks even more like his twin—or rather, his clone, given the four-year age gap between them. But that’s where the similarities end. There’s something cold and calculated about Valery. The smile on his sensual lips doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which scan my face with an unsettling lack of emotion.
A puppet master—that’s what he reminds me of, I realize as he congratulates us in a cool, even tone, his deep voice as unaccented as his brothers’.
As with Konstantin, our call with him is short, just a simple meet-and-greet. At the end of it, I have no idea what he thinks of me or our hasty wedding—or anything else for that matter.