Konstantin responds in rapid Russian, his voice carrying that hint of steel wrapped in velvet that I’m beginning to recognize as his public tone. The couple laughs—not the genuine kind, but the calculated chuckle of people who know better than to not laugh at the boss’s joke.
Oh God.
My feet are screaming. These replacement shoes—Italian leather torture devices—are half a size too small. Each heartbeat sends a fresh throb of pain through my pinched toes. I shift my weight slightly, earning a subtle tightening of Konstantin’s grip on my waist.
Stay still. Be pretty. Don’t embarrass me.
Message received, sir.
I scan the reception hall—a soaring space with crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures, and enough floral arrangements to depopulate several botanical gardens. Everything is white, gold, and glacial blue. Elegant. Expensive. Extravagant.
And none of it was my choice.
“Congratulations,” someone says, shaking my hand. A woman, rail-thin, dressed in couture I’ll never be able to pronounce, let alone afford.
I mumble something polite. I’ve lost track of who I’ve spoken to, how many strangers have smiled at me like I’m some fascinating new pet Konstantin just acquired.
I recognize some of them. Men fromForbes,women fromVogue.The occasional familiar face from the society pages that I’ve never met but have definitely mocked before.
And then there are the Russians.
Low voices. Measured words. A handful of men with tattoos creeping from under their starched cuffs, their presence heavy, unspoken danger wrapped in silk ties and wealth.
Bratva.
I don’t need to understand Russian to feel it—the power, the silent hierarchy that shifts around Konstantin like a tide bending to the moon. These aren’t just businessmen. These are men who can rewrite the future with a nod or a whisper.
And I just married one of them.
God help me.
6
Bella
“So, this is she.”
The voice isn’t deep or steady. It’s the kind that scrapes against your spine—thin, slick, almost amused.
I’ve seen this scene before. Not in real life—but in every mafia movie ever made.
A cold hand clasps over mine, squeezing just a little too long. I look up into eyes the exact shade of ice—blue, sharp, and completely void of warmth.
He’s tall. Lean. Looks like he stepped out of aGQspread for “men who ruin lives and don’t call the next day.” His mouth curves into something that might pass for a smile if it didn’t feel like a threat.
“She’s lovely,” he says like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “Not your usual type,brother.”
Brother?
I blink. Wait—what?
I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let go.
Not right away.
He holds it just long enough to make a point, thumb brushing my knuckles like we’re on some kind of date. That smug, smug smirk tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing—and that he likes it.
And then—Konstantin moves.
