It won’t really matter for the ceremony. It’s not arranged like a Catholic wedding. Only Yelena and I will stand at the altar, along with the priest and Adrian, who will function as something called a koumbaros.

Instead of sleeping at my apartment with Jace, I spent one last night at my family home. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep in this narrow twin bed again, in this steeply-gabled roof with its posters and familiar scent of cedarwood.

I take a long time getting ready, wanting everything to be just right, down to the last hair on my head. Unfortunately, my hair rarely cooperates when I want it to. The curls seem just as excited as I am today, and I wish I would have gotten my hair cut shorter this time around, so I could be sure of managing it.

As I’m buttoning up my crisp white dress shirt, I see the gleam of the tiny gold medallion on my chest. I press it between my thumb and index finger, wondering what Uncle Francesco would say if he could see me marrying a daughter of the Bratva. Would he see it as a betrayal? Or would he understand?

It’s impossible to know. That’s the trouble with losing the people you love. You can’t ask their opinions anymore. You can’t make them happy or unhappy with your choices.

My mother isn’t here, either. She never got to see a single one of us married.

Her opinion, at least, I can be sure of. She married for love, damn the circumstances. She wanted to be with my father, no matter his history.

She would have loved Yelena. She’d be glad that I was marrying someone who loved music like she did. She would have been the one to pick the piano for our wedding present.

When I’m shaved and brushed and dressed to perfection, I meet Papa and Greta downstairs in the kitchen. Papa is wearing his finest charcoal suit, double-breasted, with an almost invisible pinstripe—the one Mama had made for him for their fifteenth anniversary. Greta looks very nice as well. She’s got on a navy blazer and skirt, with a little matching hat pinned in her reddish hair.

“You look like you’re going to a royal wedding,” I tease her.

“At least one of us does!” she snaps back, never at a loss for a response. “What happened to men wearing proper tuxes for their weddings?”

“A lot of people wear suits now,” I say, shrugging.

“A lot of people get married in Vegas,” Greta sniffs. “That doesn’t mean it’s good manners.”

“You look very handsome,” Papa assures me. He lays his hand on my shoulder, something he has to reach up to do these days. “I’m proud of you, my son.”

“Thank you, Papa,” I say.

He knows I mean thank you for all of this, not just for the compliment.

Nero pulls upfront of the house in one of his nicest cars—the oxblood Talbot Lago Grand Sport. It’s freshly washed and waxed, gleaming in the bright morning light. It’s such a boat that Papa, Greta, and I can all fit in the bench seat in the back, while Camille rides up front with Nero.

“Congratulations, Seb,” she says, turning around in her seat to squeeze my shoulder.

Her dark, curly hair is pulled up in a bun on top of her head, and her pretty sundress almost exactly matches the shade of the car.

“You finally finished this thing!” Papa says to Nero, admiring the buttery leather seats and the vintage dashboard with its round dials and knobs.

“We finished it,” Nero says, throwing his arm around Camille’s shoulders. “Camille helped me swap out the alternator. It’s her car, by the way, she’s just letting us borrow it today.”

“That’s brave of you,” I say to Camille. “Have you seen him drive?”

Camille grins. “If he runs into anything, I know how to fix it.”

We speed off toward the church, swift and smooth as a bird in flight. For all I like to give Nero shit, he’s an excellent driver. I’d trust him to take me anywhere, even in this ancient car without a single modern safety feature.

The closer we get to the church, the less I can listen to the conversation swirling around me. All I can think about is what Yelena will look like in her wedding dress.

We’re getting married in the Orthodox Cathedral in Ukrainian Village. Technically, my family is Catholic, but that was one of the many concessions we were willing to cede to Yenin to make this whole thing go smoothly.

Nero pulls up in front of the church, which is a white-plastered building with a large octagonal dome and a bell tower. It looks simultaneously grand and provincial, with its painted woodwork and its rustic shapes, so unlike a Catholic cathedral.

As we walk inside, it seems even more exotic. A massive triptych stands behind the altar, painted in red, turquoise, and gold. The mosaic angels on the walls look decidedly Byzantine. The interior of the dome is likewise painted turquoise, spotted with stars. I smile at that, thinking that Yelena will like it.

Greta looks around at the scarlet carpet and the gilded wood.

“It’s very . . . Russian,” she whispers to me.

I stifle a laugh. “I think that’s the idea.”

Yenin comes striding around the triptych, flanked by an Orthodox priest and his son Adrian.

“Good morning,” he greets us politely. “What a perfect day for a wedding.”

“You couldn’t ask for better,” Papa says, holding out his hand to shake Alexei’s.

Yenin looks over at Greta with mild curiosity, and Papa says, “Allow me to introduce our . . . Greta.”

He doesn’t like to call her our housekeeper, because Greta is so much more than that to our family.

Greta likewise shakes Yenin’s hand, with less than her usual enthusiasm. I’m sure Papa told her all about Alexei. Or else she just dislikes the look of him, with his wide smile that doesn’t extend up to his eyes.

“My son Adrian,” Yenin says. Adrian likewise shakes hands all around, with about the same enthusiasm as Greta showed.

When he comes to me, I say eagerly, “Is Yelena here?”

“She’s getting ready in one of the side rooms,” Adrian says.

He looks pale and solemn in his dark suit. I always have an automatic liking for Adrian, because he looks so much like Yelena. But I don’t think that feeling is returned. Today he meets my eyes, but not with any warmth. He looks unhappy and slightly ill.

“I have a question,” Greta says to the priest. “Where are the pews?”

“We do not sit during sermons,” the priest explains. “But you may bring forward the chairs from along the wall, if you wish.”

He points to the high-backed ornate armchairs lined up along the walls. They look heavy and difficult to move, so—catching sight of Jace, Giovanni, and Brody coming into the church—I say, “Just in time—I’ve got a job for you.”

“Already?” Brody grins.

Greta directs us as to where she thinks the chairs should go, and Jace, Giovanni, Brody, and I move them into place.

Nero sits in one of the chairs along the wall, watching us.

“You should be doing that, not your brother!” Greta scolds him. “It’s his wedding day.”

“Yes, but he’s not as hungover as I am,” Nero says.

Nero didn’t actually drink enough to be hungover. I think he’s more interested in keeping an eye on the rest of Yenin’s men who have come into the church. I see the big silent one, Rodion, who appears to be in a particularly foul mood, and then three others behind him. One is the baby-faced kid that was at the negotiating table. I believe he’s Yenin’s driver, and a distant cousin of Yelena—his name is Timur-something. The other two I don’t recognize. They might also be relatives, or just bratoks. I get the feeling that Yenin has more soldiers than family.