This. Us. His wife now. Mrs. Petrov. Married. Being taken in a limo while Chicago passes outside unseen.
The driver knows. Has to know. But won't say anything. Because Ivan's the Pakhan. And what the Pakhan does is law.
Ivan adds fingers while still inside me. Two of them. Working in rhythm with his thrusts. It shouldn't be possible to feel this much. To take this much. But my body accepts it. Welcomes it. Tightens around everything he's giving me.
I force my eyes open and look up.
The sunroof shows the darkening sky. The first stars shine through city haze. Chicago lights compete with them, but they’re losing.
Beautiful.
Everything's beautiful right now.
Ivan's rhythm changes. Harder. Faster. His fingers curl and press where I need them. My back arches off the leather.
"That's it." His voice is rough. Strained. On the edge. "Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking city hear you."
"You—" I can't finish. Can't speak. Just feel everything building and breaking and?—
He follows. Both of us wrecked. Both of us tangled together on leather that's likely ruined now.
We stay as one, breathing hard. His weight presses me into the seat. His heart hammers against mine.
"Welcome to married life," he says against my neck.
"Is it always like this?"
"With us? Probably." He pulls back to look at me. "Think you can handle it?"
"I married you, didn't I?"
"Fair point."
The limo keeps moving, taking us away from Chicago. From obligations. From everything except this.
My ring catches the last of the sunset through the tinted windows. Gold and diamond. His mother's, he'd said.
His wife's now. Mine.
Mrs. Petrov.
Forever.
EPILOGUE
LILA
The shower steam follows me into the bedroom.
Six months here, and this view still gets me every single morning.
Sunrise paints everything gold and pink through floor-to-ceiling windows. The ocean stretches forever. Caribbean blue that looks photoshopped. The yacht rocks gently beneath my feet—our floating fortress slash honeymoon suite slash apparently permanent residence.
I'm awake at sunrise now. Voluntarily. Me: the girl who worked graveyard shifts and thought 2 p.m. was early.
Life is strange.
I pad to the easel by the window. Yesterday's painting sits half-finished. The view from our last island—turquoise water, white sand, palm trees doing their postcard best.
