“With this ring, I thee wed,” she murmurs, looking up at me through those thick, dark lashes.
“By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest says. “You may kiss the bride.”
With one hand, I take Anika’s hip, cupping the back of her neck with my other as I pull her close, and I feel her stiffen, tensing with anxiety.
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, as if to push me away. But she doesn’t.
And as I lean in slowly, watching her striking face, I can hear the soft catch of her breath.
The enticing scent of cinnamon and rose drifts up to me, and I breathe her in as I lock down my self-control. I can read the reticence in her body, her fear of my touch. I’m not interested in forcing myself on any woman, so as much as I want to claim Anika’s lips right here and now—to taste her deeply for the first time—I keep it chaste.
Brushing my lips lightly across hers, I bite back my groan of desire as lightning rips through me, setting my blood on fire. My pulse surges at the soft sound of Anika’s gasp, and I wonder if she feels it too, the electric connection between us.
Clamping my teeth together, I force myself to pull back, releasing Anika as the room breaks into applause.
It’s a muted applause, and I’m fully aware of the grudging way our Russian guests clap, as though it’s a personal blow to their ego.
Good.
They’ve received the message. Now, it’s time to see just how much discord taking Anika as my wife will sow between them.
The wedding guests shift to the open area of the ballroom for our cocktail hour, and I note Gio and the twins mingling with theO’Connors and the Kellys to gain better rapport and feel out who might be an ally.
Sandro especially is the perfect man for the job, since he already has something of a camaraderie with the Irish after participating in the fighting pits they often host, and Raf has been known to come watch his brother fight often enough.
If anyone can talk them over to our cause, it’s the twins, with our most gregarious brother, Gio, as backup.
Meanwhile, it’s my turn to introduce Anika to the Italian families who have remained steadfast allies throughout our family’s recent misfortune. But first, I think Anika and I could both use a drink.
“Prosecco?” I suggest as I lead my new bride to the open bar.
Anika’s eyes flash up to meet mine, a guarded question flitting across her face, and it makes me think she remembers the night we first met—perhaps as clearly as I do. I wonder what she made of that encounter. She and Pyotr left so quickly after, I didn’t have the opportunity to find out.
“Yes, thank you,” she says, and I signal the bartender for two glasses of bubbly.
“Signor Chiaroscuro, congratulations on your big day. You’ve certainly found a stunner, haven’t you?”
I would recognize the sound of Matteo Lombardi’s voice anywhere, given the number of attempts I witnessed as he tried to coerce my brother Leo into taking his daughter’s hand in marriage—even if she’s not yet eighteen.
It’s no secret that Signor Lombardi hopes to join our families through marriage—particularly to whichever of Don Augusta’s becomes his official heir.
The man reeks of desperation, but I know better than to ignore him because he’s one of our strongest allies. And with six sons of his own, Matteo Lombardi’s direct descendants alone are almost enough to form a battalion. Not to mention, they’ve always been loyal to my father.
“Thank you, Signor Lombardi. May I introduce you to my wife, Anika? Anika, this is Matteo and his lovely wife Maria Lombardi.”
“A pleasure,” Anika says, her voice warm and welcoming in a way she hasn’t shown me since I killed her husband.
I steal a glance in her direction, caught off guard by the way she seems able to effortlessly switch on her charm. Even her smile is welcoming.
Matteo fixes me with a saccharine grin. “Peccato che sia russa. Avresti fatto meglio con una vera sposa italiana,” Matteo says, switching to Italian as he blatantly insults my wife right in front of her.Too bad she’s Russian. You would have done better with a proper Italian bride.
I bristle immediately, my fist clenching as I grind my teeth to keep my temper under control.
It wouldn’t do us any favors to make an enemy of the Lombardis right now, but I have half a mind to break his nose.
Instead, I take a generous swig of prosecco to occupy my mouth.
“Matteo,” Maria gasps, swatting her husband’s shoulder.
