It lasts one heartbeat. Then the mask returns. But I saw it, and across the aisle, Lex saw it too — I catch the flicker of something crossing the enforcer's face. Not surprise. Recognition. Like he's seeing his brother do something for the first time and he's not sure whether to be relieved or afraid.
I reach the altar. Nico extends his hand. I take it. His palm is warm and dry and his fingers close around mine with a steadiness that feels like a promise.
"Siobhan." My name in his mouth. Low. Private. Like we're the only two people in the church.
"Nico."
The priest begins.
I don't understand most of it — the ceremony is in Greek, the words flowing over and around me in rhythms I can't parse. But I understand the weight. The priest places thestefana— wedding crowns connected by a white ribbon — on our heads. They're heavier than they look, cold metal against my hair, and when the ribbon catches between us I feel the pull of it. Bound. Tethered.
We circle the altar three times. Nico's hand doesn't leave mine. His grip is steady, guiding without pulling, and I follow because the circling is disorienting and beautiful and I don't know the steps but he does, and for once in my life I let someone lead without resenting it. We drink from the common cup — wine, sweet and sharp — and his lips touch the same spot mine did, and the intimacy of that small thing hits me harder than it should.
The ceremony is ancient. Binding. Real in a way the legal paperwork wasn't. I may not understand the words, but I understand what's happening in this room: two families, two worlds, two people being fused together by ritual and necessity and something neither of us has named yet.
Throughout it all, Nico's hand stays in mine. His thumb traces a slow circle on my wrist — unconscious, I think, a gesture he's not aware of making. But I feel every revolution. My pulse is right there, under his thumb, and he must be able to feel how fast it's beating, and if he can then he knows this isn't performance for me either.
The crowns are removed. The priest speaks a final blessing. And then it's over — the formal part, the sacred part. We turn to face each other.
This is the moment. Not the priest's words or the crowns or the circling. This.
Nico cups my face. Both hands. His palms are warm against my cheeks, his fingers threading into my hair. He studies me, giving me time. Giving me the option to pull back, the same way he gave me the option in his office. The same pattern: he offers, I choose.
I don't pull back.
He kisses me.
Soft. Brief. Almost gentle. His mouth on mine is warm and careful and nothing like what I expected. I expected conquest — the hard press of a man claiming what's his in front of an audience. I expected performance.
What I get is a question, though I can’t make it out.
I only know I'm here.
The gentleness undoes me more than force ever could. My brothers are hard men. My father is a hard man. Every man I've ever known communicates in pressure and volume and the weight of their presence. Nico Konstantinos — a man who kills with precision, who runs an empire built on blood, who hasn't felt anything in fifteen years — kisses me like I'm something that might break.
I won't break. But the fact that he's even slightly worried I might, changes something between us that I can't take back.
He pulls back. His thumb brushes my cheekbone — slow, deliberate, a touch meant only for me.
"Wife."
"Husband." My voice steadier than I feel. Steadier than I have any right to feel with his hands still on my face and his breath still on my lips and fifty people watching us pretendthis is real when it's starting to feel like something far more dangerous.
He drops his hands. We turn to face the church. The applause starts, polite, measured, the sound of two criminal organizations agreeing to stop killing each other.
Cormac doesn't applaud. He nods. Once. It's enough.
As the noise settles, Lex appears at Nico's shoulder. Materializes — that's the only word for it. One moment the space beside Nico is empty; the next, six-foot-three of silence is murmuring something I can't hear. Nico's jaw tightens. The warmth I saw at the altar drains from his face like water from a cracked glass.
"What?" I say.
"Reznikov soldiers. Outside the church." His voice is flat. Controlled. "They didn't engage. They watched."
"Watched."
"Viktor wanted us to know he was here. On our wedding day. In front of our families." A pause. "It's a message."
"What message?"