Page 14 of Lord of the Underworld

"It's a nightmare," Mother says, rubbing her temples.

She tries so hard to be a good mother, and I do love her. But above all else, she is hardcore Six Family royalty. "What will the others say?" is the very meaning of her existence.

"Your husband-to-be sent a message today," she says fretfully. "He wishes to be married now, not the three months as planned. I cannot, I cannot possibly put this together in such a ridiculous time frame!" She's waving her hands around again.

Sitting next to her, I take her hands, holding them between mine. "Mother, it's all right. Did he say why?"

"No," my father says sharply, "just that it needed to be done. He stated that his project in Chicago is urgent and he wants to return there as a married man."

Well, that's the flimsiest possible excuse. Based on Father's expression, he obviously knows this, too. I should be upset about this, right? Angry, or insulted that he's being so autocratic. Ordering my life around before he's even put a ring on my finger.

With uncanny timing, my father picks up a small box from a tray next to his breakfast and slides it down the table, skidding to a stop when it bumps my plate.

"Put this on."

It's a little velvet box, in a square shape that makes the contents obvious. My heart sinks, Vadim wouldn't even offer the basic courtesy of coming here and putting it on my finger himself. I have to get it tossed at me by my father.

"Well, go ahead and open it," my mother urges, leaning against my shoulder, eager to see.

I do, and it is heart-stopping. The ring has a large emerald-cut diamond with a sprinkle of more along the band. I turn it one way, then the other, watching the light play over the ring. The stones light up with a gentle glow, as if the diamond is the moon, and the smaller ones are stars, glinting silvery white.

"Put it on," my father snaps, at the end of his patience.

I'd never let myself think much about my future wedding, which I know is unheard of in my circles. All the Bratva girls in Moscow have excessive planning books and files, dedicated to everything from literal tons of imported orchids to hiring Beyonce to sing at their reception. I'd accepted long ago that I wouldn't have a choice about who my father married me off to, so I never let myself think about it.

Taking it out of its little velvet nest, I slide it onto my ring finger, staring at it for a moment.

"It's beautiful," my mother says, happy and relieved. "Isn't it beautiful, Benedikt? How does it fit, dear?"

I use my thumb to push it back and forth. "It's a perfect fit," I admit.

My father has had enough of 'family time' and stands, throwing his napkin on his chair. "Make this happen, Sofia," he snaps, and leaves the room.

Mother's smile crumbles, and she begins to cry pretty tears from eyes that never seem to get bloodshot. I'm an ugly crier. I snort and wheeze and look a lot more like a walrus than a woman grieving. But she has had a lot of practice, both at crying pretty tears and hiding them.

"What can I do to help?" I offer.

She waves her perfectly manicured fingers at me. "Nothing. The bride needs to be relaxed."

"Seriously? I know you're going to be miserable, Mat'. I would want to help you even if it wasn't my wedding," I say, taking her hand again. "I know how much pressure you're going to put on yourself."

"It's all right," she says, distracted. "I already placed a call today to the Brachnyy posrednik."

My blood turns to ice. "Oh," I say, my throat feels like it’s squeezing the words out. "I didn't think we'd need a consultation with her."

A "consultation" with the Brachnyy posrednik could be anything from a forced pelvic exam to prove the bride's "innocence" to a mind-numbing interrogation. The marriage broker has been a queasy, shadowy part of the Moscow Six Families' unions for three generations.

Mother glances at me and catches my nauseated expression. "Oh, dear, don't worry. She was not involved in creating your union with Vadim, which I suspect she is not happy about. Fortunately, she does have a list of approved planners who can put something this grand on at a moment's notice. She was gracious enough to share it, even without her direct involvement."

"Yes, the woman is a saint," I mumble.

"I fear half of the families won't be there, though," she says crossly. "Seven days! Half of Moscow society is out of the country right now!" Which is probably true, the women are the information brokers of the Bratva and keep a close eye on who goes where and why.

“Well, you could explain that while our wedding was hasty, we are throwing a party to celebrate later." She still looks miserable. "As grand as you like."

She perks up a bit.

"Perhaps around the holidays?" I suggest.