MIKO
The day is gone in the blink of an eye. As the sun hangs low along the horizon, casting a golden glow through the three-story pane-glass windows of the ballroom, I stand before the altar.
The decorative arch and pedestal were placed at the far end of the room for just this occasion, and it gives the event a more official touch.
Beside me, the priest we managed to wrangle despite the short notice clears his throat as he scans his notes.
He looks nervous, but I suppose he would, considering the level of arm-twisting it took to convince him to perform the ceremony outside a Catholic church.
But a church would be a risk, and today, we’re not taking unnecessary chances.
Not with Anika.
The Novikov compound is a solidly defensible structure, and with our reduced number of men, we need to focus on tactical security over brute force.
As such, stationed surreptitiously around the room are armed Chiaroscuro men, ready to step in if any of our guests decide to try something.
Gio, Raf, and Sandro sit in the front row of seats as the wedding attendees fill the white folding chairs that face the altar.
My brothers’ fine Italian suits and stoic expressions set the mood for today’s event. It doesn’t feel like a celebration.
Not when our lives have been ripped apart and we’ve been left to pick up the pieces without Leo.
Not that I begrudge my brother his freedom—or his absence on my wedding day.
It would be too dangerous for him to make an appearance, especially with the fresh hostility between his wife, Sora, and her parents. In truth, it’s a risk just opening our doors to guests so soon after the Tanakas’ betrayal.
But I refuse to put this wedding off. It would show weakness not to move forward with our plans.
And every day that Anika remains Pyotr’s widow, without a husband to shield her from the aftermath of his death, she’s a target.
So, today is a strategic move meant to protect her—to make it crystal clear that any man who touches her will have me to reckon with—and at the same time, it will show our resilience as a family and further throw the feuding Novikov Bratva into turmoil.
But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want Anika for my own selfish reasons.
I want her more than any other woman I’ve met. Something about her draws me in, like a siren call.
It has since the moment she poured champagne on my chest.
A stir of restless energy ripples through the guests as they observe the shift in music.
The first notes of the wedding march rise from the baby grand piano, signaling the ceremony’s official start.
A hush falls over the room as all eyes turn toward the ballroom doors. And as they swing open, my heart leaps up to lodge itself in my throat.
Because as Anika steps across the threshold, she takes my breath away.
Her dress is simple, understated in the most elegant way, without the superfluous beads, sequins, or frills to draw attention away from the striking woman wearing it.
The snow-white fabric hugs Anika’s slight curves, cupping her breasts and cinching around her waist before flaring out around her surprisingly full hips.
The mermaid cut of her gown tapers out at her knees to form a train behind her.
And as she walks, it whispers silently across the marble floor.
The thin straps and triangles of her dress’s top show off her distinct collarbones, which are more enticing than they have any right to be, and her exposed skin is creamy and smooth above her plunging neckline.
A fresh flush colors her cheeks, but I can barely make it out beneath the veil that covers her face.
