Page 75 of Filthy Lies

The ceremony continues with ancient words and rituals. Oil on Sofiya’s forehead. Water blessed and waiting. Solemn oaths spoken aloud.

“Do you reject Satan and all his empty promises?” the priest asks at one point.

I look down at my daughter’s innocent face, then around at the dangerous men watching from every corner of the church. How do I answer that? Our entire life is built on filthy promises made in shadow.

“I do,” I respond.

When it’s time to present Sofiya for her baptism, Vince and I step forward together. As the priest takes our daughter from my arms, something opens inside me. A sudden, crystal clarity washing over me like the holy water about to touch Sofiya’s head.

This child—conceived in passion, carried in fear, born in captivity—represents something none of us expected.

Hope.

Pure, unblemished hope in the midst of all our darkness.

Vince and I have both done terrible things. We’ve lied and betrayed and hurt. We’ve made choices that would horrify most normal people.

And yet, here she is. Perfect. Untouched by our sins.

As water cascades over Sofiya’s dark curls, she lets out a startled cry that echoes through the church. Then, to my surprise, she settles immediately, blinking up at the priest with curious blue eyes.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the priest intones.

Tears spring to my eyes unexpectedly. This moment feels sacred in a way I didn’t anticipate. Not because of the ceremony itself, but because of what it represents. A beginning. A chance for something pure to grow from our complicated soil.

I glance at Vince and find him watching our daughter with naked adoration. Just a father in love with his child. For as long as that moment lasts, he’s almost as pure as her.

When the priest hands Sofiya back to me, I clutch her close, inhaling her sweet baby scent.

“She is now sealed with the Holy Spirit,” the priest announces, making the sign of the cross over Sofiya’s head.

As if on cue, Sofiya yawns dramatically, drawing soft laughter from the congregation. Even Grigor’s stern face cracks into a smile.

For one perfect, suspended heartbeat, everything feels right. The warring factions, the dangerous men, the complicated history—all of it fades into the background. There is only this: my daughter’s warm weight in my arms, my husband’s steady presence beside me, and the wild, fierce love that binds us together.

I meet Vince’s eyes and find my own joy reflected there.

“We did it,” I whisper.

He nods, pressing a kiss to my temple. “We did.”

As we turn to face the congregation, I search for my mother among the faces. Though she’s too weak to attend, I know she’s with us in spirit. I silently promise to tell her everything about this day. She’d love the lilies, I think.

Grigor catches my eye again. He almost looks wistful. I wonder if he’s thinking of my own birth, of the daughter he never knew.

On the other side, Andrei sits rigid and unreadable. His eyes flit from Grigor to Vince to Sofiya. Impossible to say what he’s thinking.

The tension between them vibrates across the space like a plucked guitar string. Two patriarchs, two empires, separated byblood and decades of hatred, momentarily united by this tiny, squawking bundle in my arms.

The priest raises his hands in blessing. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God,” the congregation responds.

As if peace were that simple. As if any of us could just walk away from the tangled web we’ve woven.

We move down the aisle, me carrying Sofiya, Vince’s hand at my waist. Guests rise as we pass, offering congratulations and blessings.

Arkady appears at Vince’s shoulder, whispering something I can’t hear. Vince’s posture stiffens slightly, but his face reveals nothing.

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