I am still here.
The house can lock me in, the men can use me, but my purpose is mine. I whisper my brother’s name, a promise in the hush. No one can take that from me. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Eighteen - Emil
The wedding is everything I promised myself it would be: a spectacle, a final blow to the old order.
The ballroom is drenched in gold and white, walls lined with hundreds of flowers, each imported at obscene expense. There’s not a detail left untouched by power: crystal chandeliers glitter above a forest of black suits and jewel-toned dresses, and the air is thick with money, resentment, and fear.
Every camera flash, every carefully staged photograph, is a declaration. The Bratva claims an Italian princess. The underworld is watching. The message is clear: the Brunos lost. The city is mine.
I stand at the front of the room, hands folded, chin high, letting them look their fill. The Russians—my Russians—sit closest to the altar, their laughter rough, toasts already flowing.
Farther back, the Italians cluster together in stiff silence, dark eyes tracking every move. Not the Brunos, of course.
Vittorio didn’t even bother to send flowers, but the Pedros are here, forced to swallow their pride and clap as my men take their place at the heart of the room.
I look down the aisle as the doors swing open. Isabella stands at the threshold, flanked by my guards instead of family. The dress is perfect—expensive, severe, every inch designed to remind her who chose it. She may have ruined the first one, but somehow this one is even more radiant.
Her face is pale, jaw set, lips bloodless except for the fierce red painted on them. She’s beautiful, but not in the way these people expect. Not soft, not delicate.
There’s a fury in her, barely held together, shining through her misery. I feel it radiate up the aisle—a contained wildfire, set here for me to claim.
She walks with her head high. Each step is a victory for me, and a wound for the old world that thought it could hold her. She never glances at the crowd, never lets the whispers touch her. When she finally reaches me, she stands rigid by my side, hands folded at her waist, eyes on the marble just past my shoulder.
I feel a jolt as I look at her. An unexpected pull, sharp as a knife under the ribs. She is not broken. I see it in the line of her spine, the tension coiled in her fingers. They tried to tame her, but all they’ve done is give her more to burn.
The ceremony begins. The words of the officiant—an old friend of my father’s, here as a favor and a warning—roll over us like a legal sentence. Isabella never looks at me. Her shoulders are drawn, her eyes fixed somewhere I can’t reach. The world narrows to the sound of old men reading out contracts, the click of expensive shoes, the flutter of camera shutters.
When the time comes, the officiant turns to her. “Take his hand,” he says.
There’s a hesitation—almost imperceptible, but I feel it. She slides her palm into mine. Cold, trembling. For one second, I squeeze—not enough to bruise, just enough to remind her who won. I lean in, low enough that only she can hear.
“This is forever, Isabella. My ring, my name, my world.” The words are a warning, a promise, a threat. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t answer. Her silence is deafening, heavy as the vows themselves.
We exchange rings. I watch her face, searching for some crack, some sign of surrender or fear, but she gives me nothing.Her eyes flicker with something unreadable. Hate, maybe, or defiance, or simply the shock of surviving this far.
When the ceremony ends, the applause rolls through the room. The Russians roar approval, toasting with vodka, pounding fists on the tables. The Italians raise their glasses, forced smiles carved into their faces. I keep Isabella close, my arm locked around her waist. To the crowd, it looks like affection. Like a man proud of his bride. In truth, it’s a reminder: she’s mine.
No one will forget it.
The first toast comes from Dimitri, boisterous and just a little too loud. “To the new queen of New York!”
The Russians laugh and slap each other on the back. The Pedros force applause, faces tight, their ambitions dying on their tongues. I see envy, resentment, and just enough fear to satisfy me. This is what victory looks like.
I guide Isabella through the crowd, accepting congratulations, drinking when I must. Her hand never leaves mine. She moves like a porcelain figurine, beautiful and breakable, but I know the truth. She’s steel, wrapped in silk.
My grip is tight enough that she can’t pull away, but not so tight she can’t breathe. I want them to see it, all of them: the Russian’s wife, untouchable, the line between old power and new.
Photographers hover. The flashes are relentless, strobing across her pale face, catching the line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth. Someone asks for a kiss for the camera. I turn her toward me, dip my head, let my lips brush hers—not tender, not gentle, but possessive, final. She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’tyield. In that moment, I know she hates me. It only makes her more beautiful.
The celebration blurs. More toasts, more laughter, the endless parade of well-wishers and hangers-on. Through it all, I keep her close, making sure every eye in the room remembers who holds her now.
This was always the plan. Humiliation, dominance, control.
Yet, standing here, with Isabella rigid beside me and her silence ringing louder than any curse, I wonder if I’ve truly won, or if I’ve simply unleashed something neither of us can ever put back in its cage.
***
