Page 86 of Scarlet Chains
“Brat’sbeen talking about this day for weeks,” Melor tells me in his careful English, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Making us go crazy with all his planning and arranging.”
“Someone had to make sure everything was perfect,” Osip says, but he’s smiling as he says it, relaxed in a way I rarely see him. His brothers bring out something softer in him, something that reminds me that beneath all the careful control and dangerous reputation, he’s just a man who loves his tribe, his family.
We drive to the hospital first, because there was never any question that my mother would be there. She’s dressed in a soft blue dress that Osip somehow procured for the occasion, hermakeup carefully applied by one of the nurses who volunteered her services, her hair styled in a way that disguises how thin it’s become. She looks beautiful, fragile but radiant, like a piece of precious China that’s been polished until it gleams.
“My beautiful daughter,” she whispers when she sees me in my wedding dress, the words thick with tears she’s trying not to shed. “You look like a dream.”
The wheelchair ride to the hospital’s small chapel feels surreal, like we’re floating through a movie instead of living real life. Mom holds my hand the entire way, her grip firm despite her weakness, and I find myself drawing strength from that simple contact. Whatever happens after today, whatever complications the future holds, this moment is ours. This choice is mine.
The chapel is simple, non-denominational, designed to offer comfort to people of all faiths during some of the most difficult moments of their lives. There are maybe fifteen people gathered in the wooden pews— Melor and Radimir, a few hospital staff members who’ve become invested in our story, Dr. Patel who took time from his rounds to witness the ceremony.
But the only person I really see is Osip, standing at the front of the small space in a charcoal gray suit that makes his eyes look like storm clouds lit by lightning. When he sees me walking down the short aisle— Mom’s wheelchair beside me, her hand still holding mine— his expression transforms into something so raw and beautiful that I forget how to breathe.
This is it.
This is the moment that changes everything, that makes us official, that transforms us from two broken people who found each other into something permanent and legal and real.
The officiant is a gentle woman in her sixties, someone who’s presided over countless ceremonies in this small space where hope and grief intersect. She speaks about love thattranscends circumstances, about choices that define us, about the courage it takes to build something beautiful from difficult beginnings.
“Osip Mikhailovich Sidorov,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of ceremony, “do you take Ilona Katona Shiradze to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause or look around or give any indication that this is anything other than the easiest question he’s ever been asked.
“I do,” he says, his voice clear and strong and absolutely certain.
The ring slides onto my finger— not the engagement ring he gave me before, but a simple band of platinum that matches the one I’ll place on his finger in just a moment. It’s warm from his hands, solid and real and permanent.
“Ilona Katona Shiradze,” the officiant continues, turning to me with kind eyes that have seen too many endings and beginnings to be surprised by anything, “do you take Osip Mikhailovich Sidorov to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”
I look at him— study him carefully— and see everything that brought us to this moment. The danger and the protection, the violence and the tenderness, what he did to my father and then saved my mother, the way he’s simultaneously the worst and best thing that ever happened to me.
But mostly I see love. Complicated, impossible, transformative love that defies logic and conquers fear and makes two broken souls believe they can build something whole together.
“I do,” I say, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff and growing wings at the same time.
His ring slides onto his finger with the same solid certainty, metal warming against skin, promises made real in platinum and intention.
“By the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” the officiant declares, her voice lifting with joy that feels genuine and infectious, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
And then his hands are cupping my face, his thumbs stroking over my cheekbones as he leans down to press his lips to mine. The kiss is soft and sweet and perfect, nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses we’ve shared in private. This is a kiss for witnesses, for official records, for the moment that marks the beginning of our legal union.
But it’s also a kiss that tastes like promises and forever, like hope and determination and the kind of love that rewrites the rules of what’s possible.
When we break apart, the small congregation bursts into applause, and I realize I’m crying— not from sadness or fear or uncertainty, but from pure, overwhelming joy. I’m married. To Osip Sidorov. The most dangerous, impossible, wonderful man I’ve ever known.
“Mrs. Sidorova,” he whispers against my forehead, the words sending a thrill through me that I feel all the way to my toes.
“Mr. Sidorov,” I whisper back, and his answering smile could power the entire city.
We sign the papers with hands that shake slightly from adrenaline and emotion, making it official in ink and legal documentation. Melor and Radimir sign as witnesses, their Russian surnames bold and dark on the marriage certificate that will bind Osip and me together until death do us part.
Outside the chapel, someone has scattered rose petals along the hospital corridor— I suspect the same nurses who helped with Mom’s hair and makeup, these angels in scrubs who decided to make our unconventional wedding as beautiful as possible. The petals are deep red and soft pink, crushed silk that releases the faint scent of gardens and romance as we walk through them.
A small bouquet appears in my hands— white roses and baby’s breath tied with ivory ribbon, simple and classic and perfect. I have no idea where it came from, but when I look around at the faces surrounding us, everyone is smiling like they’re part of some wonderful conspiracy to make this day magical.
On impulse, I turn and toss the bouquet toward the small group of hospital staff who’ve gathered to watch. It arcs through the air in a perfect spiral, trailing ribbon and hope and tradition, before landing in the surprised hands of one of the younger nurses.
She clutches it to her chest and laughs, her face lighting up with the kind of joy that’s contagious, and suddenly everyone is laughing and clapping and celebrating like this is the happiest moment any of us have ever witnessed.
