The tension is palpable, even in the open space of the chapel. Yenin and his men take the seats we arranged on the left side of the space, and my family sits down on the right. We’re all facing forward toward the altar with its massive painted triptych almost two stories high. But we’re glancing sideways at each other, no one entirely comfortable.

For all they might not like the idea of this wedding, the Russians dressed up just as nicely as we did. Yenin is wearing a rich blue suit with a single white lily in the buttonhole, and Adrian a black suit with the same.

I didn’t get boutonnières for myself or the groomsmen. I wonder if that was a mistake. I hope Yelena won’t mind.

I keep checking my watch, counting down the minutes until the ceremony is supposed to start. At five minutes to noon, the priest gets up to close the doors to the chapel. Right before he can pull them shut, a burly arm shoots through, blocking their path.

The priest startles, stumbling backward in his long black robes.

“Sorry,” a deep, rumbling voice says.

I jump up, shocked and pleased. “Dante!”

He pushes his way inside, dressed nicely in a dark suit and tie, with his black hair freshly combed back.

Yenin frowns at the sight of him. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he says, in an irritated tone. He seems offended that Dante refused to attend initially, and even more offended that he showed up now at the last minute.

Dante ignores him. He does allow me to hug him and clap him on the shoulder.

“I’m glad you came,” I say.

“I thought I’d regret it if I didn’t,” he says. “I am happy for you, Seb.”

“I know you are,” I say.

My side of the church now includes both my brothers, Papa and Greta, Giovanni, Brody, and Jace. On the opposite side are Yenin, Adrian, Rodion, Timur, and the other two men.

The only person missing is my bride.

The priest closes the doors, then takes his position behind the altar.

He motions me to join him, and Adrian as well. Adrian is going to be our koumbaros, which Yelena told me is an essential part of the ceremony, and a sort of godfather to the couple for the rest of their lives.

Adrian looks less than pleased about his position next to the priest, but one quick glance at his father seems to remind him of his duty. He straightens up, shoulders back, readying himself for the task at hand.

Now, at last, I hear the doors behind the triptych creak open, as Yelena enters the chapel. Unlike in a Catholic ceremony, she comes from behind the altar, instead of walking up the aisle.

It doesn’t matter—she doesn’t need a grand entrance to blow my fucking mind. There’s no music playing, no path of rose petals for her to walk along. And yet she is so intensely, ethereally beautiful that my heart stops dead in my chest.

Her dress is so light and transparent it seems to float around her body. I can just make out the shape of her long, slim arms and legs as she moves, the gown swirling around her like fog. Her hair is half pinned up, with a thin silver circlet on her head, and then her long pale hair tumbles down her back in waves. The silver of her crown is picked up in the tiny pinpricks of silver on her gown, glimmering like stars in the translucent material.

Her skin is as luminescent as the moon. Her eyes are the brightest I’ve ever seen them—clear and unearthly. For a moment I wonder if Yelena really is human at all, because I’ve never seen a woman like this.

All of us are stunned to silence, even the priest.

As Yelena joins me at the altar, all I can do is take her cool, slim hands in mine and whisper, “Incredible.”

The priest begins the long and convoluted ceremony, which I can only stumble through, since I’ve never seen an Orthodox wedding before. The priest recites his blessings and bible passages, then takes our rings so he can press them to our foreheads three times each. It seems like everything happens three times over, to represent the trinity I’d guess. Adrian passes the rings between our hands three times, and then finally sets them on our fingers.

Next we do a ceremony with lit candles that Yelena and I each hold in our hands. And then we share wine from a cup and walk around the altar together three times over. At last the priest gives us his final prayers, saying the words “Na zisete,” which Yelena had told me before is an ancient blessing meaning, “May you live!”

With those words, Yelena and I become man and wife. She looks up into my face, her eyes brilliant with tears. I bend down to kiss her. Her lips are just as sweet as the very first time I tasted them.

We turn to face our families, her hand locked in mine, both of us smiling with all our might.

What happens next seems to happen in slow motion, like a nightmare. And just like a nightmare, I’m frozen in place, unable to move.

In one swift motion, like the swell of the tide, Alexei Yenin and his men rise from their seats. They pull their guns from their suit jackets, pointing them across the aisle at my family.

Before I can move, before I can shout, before I can even take a breath, they begin to fire.

My father is the first one hit, because he’s the slowest to react, and because he’s the one they’re targeting. The bullets hit him in the chest, the neck, and the jaw, blowing bits of his flesh onto Greta’s horrified face. His body jolts from the impact, betraying how frail he’s truly become. I can tell from the way that he falls that he’s dead before he hits the ground.

At the same moment, I see a blur of motion in my peripheral vision, as Adrian Yenin raises his gun and presses it against my temple. He hesitated just a moment—he didn’t pull his weapon as fast as the others.

That hesitation is the only reason I’m not dead. Had he raised his gun while I was looking at my father, I never would have known what hit me. His bullet would have torn through my skull while I watched Papa die.

But I see his arm move up, and I react without thinking. My knee may be fucked, but I still have all the reflexes of an athlete. My right hand shoots up, hitting him in the elbow and knocking his arm upward. The gun explodes an inch above my head, deafening me. I bring my left fist swinging around, crashing into Adrian’s jaw.

As these things happen, the cathedral rings with a long, long, unbroken shriek, as loud as a siren—Yelena is screaming, her fingernails digging into her cheeks.

Two more Russians come around the side of the triptych, both armed. One I’ve never seen before, but the other looks oddly familiar. He’s got a squashed nose, and a tattoo of an arrow running down the side of his shaved head. With a sickening jolt, I realize he’s the man who was trying to shove Yelena in the trunk of his car, the night she and I first met.

Everything that happens next I see in split-second snapshots. It all happens simultaneously, but my brain registers it as still images, captured between chaotic flashes of light.

I see Nero flinging himself on top of Camille, shielding her with his body as he’s shot in the back three, four, five times. I see Brody pick up one of the heavy chairs and fling it at Yenin, before he too takes a dozen bullets to his lanky frame. Giovanni is shot while charging at the Russians. He manages to barrel into two of them and knock them over, even after being hit several times.

The priest tries to run and is shot in the back—whether by accident, or to eliminate any witnesses. I rip the gun out of Adrian’s hands, and I turn it on the men who have just entered the room. I shoot the pretend kidnapper right before he can fire at Greta.