I’m nervous. I try to ignore it, but my hands fidget in my pocket, and I wish I’d grabbed my switchblade. Not because I think I’ll need it but because I feel naked without it. I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere without a weapon on me. Most of the Volkov men in the crowd are armed to the teeth should anything go wrong, but that does little to make me feel better. I’m one of the best-trained fighters in the family. I should have brought the switchblade and my gun, regardless of how ridiculous the bulge looked in my otherwise immaculate tux.
The photographer is crouching down in front of my father in the front row, snapping a picture of what appears to be a close up of his shoe. I want to tell the man to disappear until the end of the ceremony. The only reason I hired a photograp
