Even his letters look dangerous.
The ceremony isn’t in a courthouse. It isn’t in a church. It’s in his house.
Ourhouse.
Outside, in the courtyard carved into desert stone, Anton has turned the night into something out of a gothic fairytale. Torches burn in wrought-iron sconces, throwing shadows across marble statues older than Vegas itself. A canopy of black silk stretches overhead, catching the wind like sails. Roses—blood-red and white—spill from tall silver urns, their scent tangled with cigar smoke and gun oil.
And it’s not just his men watching. They’re all here. The families that own pieces of this city, the Bratva and their allies, the ones whose names never appear on paper but whose fingerprints cover every dollar that moves. Silent, sharp-eyed, waiting. Witnesses to the fact that Anton Malikov just claimed me.
And on my hand? A five-carat pink diamond, the kind whispered about inVoguespreads and royal scandals. Anton slid it on without asking my size. Of course it fit. Of course it glittered like it belonged there.
In the corner of the courtyard, Lev is leaning against a column, shamelessly flirting with the poor violinist hired to make this thing sound classy.
“Play something dirtier,” he tells her. She looks confused. He looks delighted.
Dima stands near the gate, back straight, eyes scanning the rooftops like he expects a sniper in the stucco. Boris has commandeered a carved stone bench and is typing furiously into his phone, probably hacking the mansion’s own cameras because he gets bored if he’s not committing light treason.
My grandmother sits in the front row, cardigan buttoned like armor, hands folded in her lap. She’s small in the chair but enormous in my life—eyes bright and steady today, like she’s decided not to let the dizzy spells win. She smiles at me in a way that feels like a blessing and a dare all at once.
Next to her, Jasper is a Milan runway disaster dropped into a mob wedding. Perfect hair, crossed legs, the attitude of someone judging both the décor and my life choices at the same time.
He doesn’t need to say anything. He just tilts his head, eyes locking with mine across the aisle, and I know exactly what he’s about to pull. Our whole friendship has been built on these silent conversations—one look, and I hear him clear as day.
His brows lift, lips barely moving as he pantomimes the words:“If he murders you, I will avenge you.”
Then, because he’s Jasper, he commits to the bit—flipping through an imaginary Rolodex on his knee like he’s scrolling Yelp for hitmen. His eyes cut back to mine, glittering, and the look that follows is unmistakable:“Just so we’re clear.”
I almost snort right there at the altar. A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it, and I shake my head gently, the tiniest movement, like I’m telling him tobehave. My eyes lift, dragged back to the man beside me.
Anton doesn’t look at Jasper. He doesn’t have to. His hand shifts, closing over mine where it rests against my belly, palm firm, fingers spreading slowly until I feel the press of his wedding band against my skin. A silent claim. A reminder of exactly what—and who—he owns now.
Heat flares through me, sharp and dizzying. My breath sticks in my throat.
His head dips just enough that only I hear it. “You look like the only thing worth surviving for.”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I can’t speak.
Becausehe’s real. Anton Malikov is real. And I just married him.
He stands like a carved statue beside me, cold and still, dressed in the kind of tailored suit that should be illegal on someone thatlethal and hot. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Hair swept back like he didn’t even try—and still looks like a walking sin.
And he’s looking at me like he already owns every breath I’m about to take.
Maybe it’s not love. Maybe it’s obsession. Or madness. Or whatever you call it when your worst mistake also feels like your best decision.
But itfeelslike love.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that ruins you.
I shouldn’t want that. I should be terrified.
But instead, I’mdrenchedin it.
My grandma coughs gently, and I force my legs to work. The moment the papers are signed, Anton turns to face me fully.
His eyes—green and merciless—drag over my face, my lips, my belly. He hasn’t touched me in front of anyone. Not until now.
