Page 58 of Mistaken
Ella was just a lump in the bed, topped with a pile of tangled black hair. She’d slept for twelve hours after we’d finished together.
“????????… wake up, it’s Christmas Eve…”
She opens one pale green eye, not looking enthused about getting out of bed. “I might need to call in sick, I think you broke me with your cock.”
I’m surprised into laughter, loud and oddly freeing. I didn’t laugh much. In my position, it was either a polite chuckle or a dirty snicker.
“I mean it,” she whines, flailing weakly and looking rather pitiful.
“I’m sorry darling,” I soothe, “but my mother and sisters are here. Christmas Eve mass begins in less than an hour.”
“You’re going to church?” Ella seems shocked and then seems to realize this was perhaps not the best way to express this. “I mean, um, we’re going to church?”
“Yes darling,” I smile darkly as I help her out of bed, “Even my black and sin-stained soul goes to mass on Christmas Eve, though it is possible that I will go up in flames as I enter the church.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles, “it just didn’t seem like it was a big interest of yours. What does one wear to mass on Christmas Eve here?”
Sorting through her dresses quickly, I hold up a long-sleeved, black dress with a modest neckline. “Covering me up like a nun, are we?”
“Oh,????????,” I purr, “only so I can take you out of it later.”
Eyes wide, she seizes the dress from me and escapes into the bathroom.
Ella is ready within the half-hour deadline and even manages to greet my sisters warmly with hugs, and smiles pleasantly at my mother; not attempting to embrace her and knowing quite well that the matriarch of the Morozov clan will not offer one, either.
“This is where your family attends church?” She’s staring, fascinated by the multiple pillars of cream-colored stone and the massive bronze doors.
Yuri has decided to offer himself as tour guide again, I note sourly. “Yes, the cathedral is dedicated to Our Lady of Kazan, the most sacred icon in Russia. The architect wanted to model the cathedral after some of the most important churches in Rome.”
“It’s so beautiful…” She marvels over the design as I help her out of the Mercedes.
My mother hands her a folded square of black silk. “It is customary to wear a headscarf to mass here.” She shows Ella how to wear it and drapes the ends for her. It is the first sign of a thaw, and I’m unreasonably pleased that it is happening so quickly.
Despite the church being full, we walk to the second row, held empty for us and the family files in, with our bodyguards in the row behind. “They keep special seating for you?” Ella whispers, her eyes lit up with mischief, “Just how generous are you with the donations, hmm?”
“Hush,” I whisper, taking her hand and resting it on my thigh. Though no one else can see it, my mother gives me a slitted-eyed glare, which I pleasantly ignore.
The service is grand; soaring music, song, and messages of love and forgiveness. As a child, it was hard for me to understand how these things could possibly relate to my life. Love is difficult, forgiveness is impossible. But while this cathedral is the grandest of all the churches in St. Petersburg, there is humility here tonight. The warmth of the candles and the songs sung by hundreds of voices joined together make me feel that there is the slightest possibility for the concept of love. I love my family fiercely, and I would protect and care for them to my dying breath. But for my wife, with her foul mouth and stubbornness, her undying loyalty to her friends, and her courage to save another life before her own? On a night like this, all things seem possible.
“That was beautiful,” Ella sighed, taking my offered arm. “I have never been to a Christmas mass. It definitely makes this day have more meaning, doesn’t it?”
“It is the only time I attend church, but it is time well spent,” I agree. I nod politely to various acquaintances and the members of other Bratva families here. There is a permanent truce in the cathedral, which is a crucial time to renew partnerships and establish bonds.
“Oh, there you are, Maksim!”
My spine stiffens at the girlish trill. I know exactly who this is. How dare she approach us? “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Morozov,” Katya says sweetly to my mother, ignoring my sisters and my wife, who is frozen in place at my side. Of course, the little bitch dares, the truce here means I am required to be civil, and her spiteful grin shows she knows it.
“Katya,” I acknowledge coldly, “where are your parents?”
“Oh,” she shrugs, “they chose to spend the holidays at their estate in Costa Rica, but I had to come home for a special engagement. Mine, in fact!” She thrusts out her left hand with nails as long and sharp as a polar bear’s, an engagement ring catching the candlelight as Katya flutters her fingers.
“Congratulations,” my mother says coolly, she has always despised the Sokolovs, “and who is the lucky man?”
Katya dramatically points to the man next to her. He’s not looking at us, clearly bored. My jaw tightens as I recognize him.
“Vasily Shevchenko,” Katya gloats, “this is Maksim Morozov, adear, old friend.” He grunts at me, and I nod in return. “We’ll be sending invitations soon,” she adds, “you must join us to celebrate!”
I know without looking that my sisters are rolling their eyes, but Ella stands perfectly still, holding my arm. When I notice Shevchenko staring at her, I move into his field of vision. “Congratulations, of course,” I say impassively, “we must be going.”
