Page 6 of My Wedding Night Massacre

And then there is nothing at all.

4

Pavlina

The sounds start below us like something tearing open at the seams, but my father doesn’t move.

He’s still holding his vodka. That’s what’s wrong with this picture, that’s what my brain snags on before anything else. My father is in the middle of this room, completely unmoved, while the building comes apart one floor below us.

“We need to go down,” I say. “Slava’s down there.”

My father looks at me. “You’re staying here.”

I’m already moving toward the door when his men step in front of it.

Two of them. I don’t recognize either one, which I should’ve noticed earlier but didn’t, because I’d been too busy being a wife tonight, too busy being happy, too busy letting myself believe that this was real, safe, and mine to keep.

I stop and look at my father, who’s still holding his vodka.

“What is this?” The performance holds even now, even with my hands shaking and the sounds from below getting worse. I was raised for this, apparently, steady voice and still face while everything comes apart.

He doesn’t answer.

I go for the door anyway. The man on the left catches me first, arm locking around my waist, but I get one hand to the door handle before the second one pulls me back. I fight with everything I have, which isn’t much against two men built like walls. Nails, elbows, and the heel of my shoe found someone’s shin. I scream Slava’s name until my voice cracks open, the sound coming out of me no longer human, no longer a name, just pure animal need.

My father stands in the middle of the room, watching. I look at his face and see nothing there that resembles regret. That’s when I understand what tonight actually is.

I’m being held back, powerful arms restraining me, but that doesn’t stop me from hearing everything. The shots, the shouting, the sounds of a building eating itself alive one floor below. But I see none of it.

My father moves to the window once and looks down at something on the street. He seems satisfied. To him, I’ve stopped being a person in this room, so he doesn’t bother to speak to me again. I’m a thing being managed, the way I’ve always been. The worst part is that some buried, battered part of me isn’t even surprised.

What surprises me is how much it hurts. How much I’d believed it was different this time.

They move me when the sounds below start to thin. Back corridor, away from the main staircase, a route through the building I’ve never used because why would I. This was supposed to be my wedding venue, the best night of my life. The man holding my arm isn’t rough but he isn’t gentle either. I stop fighting. Not because I’ve given up, but because I’m saving whatever strength I have left.

The side exit is through a corridor I don’t recognize. We’re moving fast, my father ahead of me and his men around me. I’m watching every door and every turning because information is the only thing I have right now.

We pass a window facing the side street, and that’s when I see him. Slava on the concrete with blood oozing from multiple bullet wounds. Misha’s hands are under his arms, dragging him away from the building. His feet trail behind him. His head is back, his eyes closed, his body completely without resistance. There’s so much blood on his shirt that the white of it is almost gone.

He looks dead.

He is dead.

The sound I make isn’t a scream. It’s smaller than that and somehow worse, dragged up from somewhere that doesn’t have a name. The guard holding me pulls me forward. My father’s hand is already on my shoulder, steering me toward the exit as if this is something that’s happening to me rather than something he orchestrated.

I go completely silent.

The car is waiting, and the engine is already running. I’m thrown into it because I don’t have a choice and because my legs have stopped taking instructions from my brain.

My father gets in beside me and starts talking. I hear his voice but not his words. My hands are in my lap, and I’m staring at them, but I’m not seeing them. I’m seeing the window, the street, Slava on the concrete with Misha’s hands under his arms and his shirt soaked through. I can’t find my way out of that image. I’m not sure I’m trying to.

I grew up in this world. I know what that much blood means. I know what a man looks like when he’s finished, and Slava looked finished. There was no life left in him. Slava, whom I married six hours ago, who fixed my hair after he’d had me against a wall thirty minutes ago, who said he loved me like it was the simplest truth he knew.

“...the Yeleshev organization will be absorbed smoothly, there’s no reason for...” His voice surfaces beside me. “...unfortunate but necessary, you’ll see that...” The city moves past the window. “...carry the name now, that’s what matters...” I watch a light turn red. “...Lyubimtsev legacy, stronger than ever...”

I don’t look at him.

The image in my head plays on a loop. Slava on the ground. The blood. Misha’s face, tight and grim, moving fast but not fast enough.