She was mine. The woman who'd walked into hell to save Mikhail. Who'd chosen me, repeatedly and deliberately, despite having every reason to run.
Mikhail walked her down the short aisle with careful steps. Sophie's bad knee had been bothering her this week, and I watched her favor it slightly, compensating with grace from years of ballet training.
She was cataloging details, her photographic memory capturing everything. I could see it in how her eyes moved—tracking faces, the roses, the light. But her eyes kept returning to me. Finding my face like magnetic north.
They reached the front. Mikhail placed Sophie's hand in mine. The touch was electric. Her fingers were warm, slightly trembling, and they fit against my palm perfectly. I closed my hand around hers.
"Take care of the girl, vnuchok," Mikhail whispered, his voice thick. "She is the best of all of us."
"Always," I promised him, but my eyes never left Sophie's. "I promise."
Mikhail stepped back. But I barely registered his movement. Barely heard the words he started speaking about love and partnership.
I was looking at Sophie. At the tears streaming down her face now. At the smile that made her luminous. At the way she gripped my hand like I was the only solid thing in a shifting world.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi, printsessa," I whispered back, and my voice was wrecked. "You look—"
I couldn't finish. Didn't have words.
She understood anyway. Squeezed my hand and smiled wider.
Mikhail was speaking. Something about vows and promises. But I was only half listening, too focused on Sophie's face, on memorizing this moment.
"I've got you," I whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
"I know," she whispered back. "Always."
Always.
I was Nikolai Besharov. Pakhan. Strategist. Daddy.
And in about five minutes, I'd be Sophie's husband.
The thought made me smile. Real and unguarded. The kind of expression that would have been impossible six months ago.
There was so much build up. So many feelings.
But the moment came. We said, “I do,” we kissed.
And I realized this wasn’t the end—this was just the start.
Thereceptionwasexactlywhat Sophie wanted. Quiet. Intimate. Just family gathered in the main sitting room with champagne and conversation mixing with laughter.Not the massive bratva celebration that tradition demanded. This was ours. Private.
Kostya stood near the bar with Dmitry Volkov, both men holding whiskey, engaged in what looked like an intense debate about violence versus strategy against the Belyaevs. Dmitry was grinning. Kostya was actually smiling—genuine warmth, not the cold expression before eliminating threats.
My brothers—blood and chosen—finding common ground at my wedding reception.
Clara and Sophie stood near the windows, heads bent together over something on Sophie's phone. Clara laughed. Sophie smiled that incandescent smile, wearing the soft cream dress she'd changed into. She looked impossibly young. Impossibly happy.
Maks was demonstrating something on his tablet to Ivan, both faces showing focused intensity. Probably tracking algorithms or data patterns.
This was family. Not cold political construction, but something warmer. Messier. Real.
I found Mikhail by the window, slightly apart from the others. He held a glass of vodka—the good Russian stuff—watching Sophie with an expression that made my throat tight.
Pride. Affection. The look of a man who'd gambled everything and watched it pay off.
