“You become my wife. That carries privileges prisoners don’t receive.”
“Such as?”
“Access to resources. Involvement in decisions that affect you. The ability to move beyond these walls under appropriate security.” I hold her gaze. “And my complete commitment to ensuring nothing and no one harms you.”
“Your commitment.” She laughs bitterly. “The same commitment that let my brother die?”
“No. This is different.”
“How?”
“I’m choosing you over organizational convenience. That’s a choice I didn’t make for Ethan.”
Diana studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she walks to the window, staring out at grounds she can’t access freely.
The acceptance comes in her stillness rather than words. She doesn’t refuse. Doesn’t argue. Just stands there calculating a future that’s narrowed to survival through permanent attachment to a man who let her brother die.
“When?” she asks without turning around.
“Soon. Within days, before Sartore forces escalation.”
“What happens after we’re married?”
“You’re protected. Permanently, under rules even Lorenzo can’t challenge without war.”
She nods once, slow and deliberate. “Then I’ll do it.”
Chapter Fourteen - Diana
The ceremony happens three days later in a small Orthodox chapel tucked into the far corner of the estate grounds.
The building is old stone and stained glass, maintained for occasions exactly like this—Bratva unions conducted quietly, witnessed minimally, blessed by a priest who asks no questions about the families he serves.
I wear a dress someone selected without consulting me—ivory silk that fits perfectly because they have my measurements, simple cut that suggests elegance without the performance of traditional bridal wear. The ring Felix slides onto my finger during the ceremony is platinum, understated, heavy enough that I feel its weight every time I move my hand.
Two witnesses stand in silence near the altar—Pavel, who watches with an expression I can’t read, and a woman I don’t recognize who signs the marriage certificate with efficient detachment.
Felix stands beside me in a dark suit, his voice steady as he repeats vows I barely hear through the roaring in my ears. When the priest asks if I take this man, I say yes without looking at him.
The priest blesses our union in Russian I don’t understand. Felix kisses me briefly—a formal press of lips that carries no heat, just acknowledgment that the ritual is complete.
We’re married.
I’m Diana Rudenko now, bound to a man who watched me sleep and held a knife to my throat and just declared me untouchable through structures that supersede the council authority that wanted me dead.
The weight of it doesn’t fully land until we’re back at the main house, paperwork filed, witnesses dismissed. Felix walks me to the master bedroom on the second floor—a space I’ve never entered, larger than my entire Brooklyn apartment, dominated by a king bed that suddenly feels impossibly significant.
“Your belongings have been moved here,” he says, gesturing toward the closet where I find my clothes hanging beside his. “The bathroom is through that door. If you need anything, there’s an intercom system that connects to central control.”
The clinical tone grates against the reality that we just got married and are now standing in a bedroom we’re expected to share.
“Where are you sleeping?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Here.” His pale eyes meet mine directly. “We’re married. Separate bedrooms would raise questions I’d rather avoid.”
“I don’t want to share a bed with you.”
“You’re supposed to share a life with me.” He moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “The bed is part of that.”
