Page 118 of Marked By the Mob

Before I can respond, a knock sounds at the door. One of the staff members pokes her head in. “It’s time.”

My pulse quickens, nerves and excitement flooding through me in equal measure. This is it. This is actually happening.

Krystal squeezes my hand. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

The ceremony space takes my breath away. The main hall has been transformed with hundreds of candles, their flames casting warm light across the stone walls. White flowers are everywhere, their scent filling the air. And at the far end, standing beneath an arch of roses, are Rurik, Eduard, and Artur.

They’re all wearing dark suits that make them look even more imposing than usual. Rurik’s pale blue eyes find mine immediately, his expression intense. Eduard’s gray gaze is warm, his lips curving into a small smile. Artur’s dark eyes dance with barely contained excitement, that crooked grin firmly in place.

My three men.

The thought sends heat through me despite the formality of the moment. They’re mine, I’m theirs, and in a few minutes, it’ll be official.

The Bratva members fill the seats on either side of the aisle. Captains from all three families, their wives and children, and trusted associates who’ve proven their loyalty over the years. They stand as I enter, their expressions ranging from curious to approving.

I walk down the aisle alone, my head held high. No one to give me away because I’m not property being transferred. I’m choosing this. Choosing them.

When I reach the arch, all three men step forward. Rurik takes my right hand, Eduard my left, and Artur positions himself behind me, his hand resting on my lower back.

The officiant is an older man, a priest who’s performed these ceremonies for Bratva families for decades. He begins speaking in Russian, his voice carrying through the hall with practiced authority. I don’t understand all the words, but I catch enough. Unity. Strength. Family.

Then he switches to English, addressing me directly. “Emma Moore, do you enter this union willingly? Do you pledge yourself to these three men, to stand beside them as wife and partner?”

“I do.” My voice is steady, clear.

“And do you, Rurik Novikov, Eduard Balabanov, and Artur Lenkov, pledge to honor and protect this woman? To share her equally and treat her with the respect she deserves?”

“We do,” they say in unison, their voices blending together.

The priest continues with the traditional vows, binding us together in words that have been spoken for generations. When he finishes, he produces three rings. Simple platinum bands that match.

Rurik slides the first ring onto my finger, his pale eyes locked on mine. “You’re ours now. Forever.”

Eduard adds the second ring beside it. “We’ll protect you. Always.”

Artur places the third ring, completing the set. “And we’ll love you until our last breath.”

My throat tightens with emotion, but I manage to smile as I slip matching bands onto each of their fingers in turn.

“I now pronounce you bound,” the priest says. “You may kiss your bride.”

Rurik claims my mouth first, his kiss possessive and deep. When he pulls back, Eduard takes his place, his lips gentle but no less claiming. Then Artur spins me around, dipping me dramatically as he kisses me hard enough to make my toes curl.

The Bratva erupts. Cheering, whistling, and applause fill the hall. I laugh against Artur’s mouth, joy bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. This is insane. This is perfect.

The reception is a blur of congratulations, toasts, and dancing. I’m passed between my three husbands, each of them taking turns spinning me across the floor while the Bratva watches with approval. By the time we finally leave, my feet ache from the heels, and my face hurts from smiling.

The drive back to the estate is quiet, all four of us exhausted but content. Rurik’s hand rests on my thigh, Eduard’s fingers thread through mine, and Artur’s arm is draped across my shoulders.

“That was perfect,” I murmur.

Inside the estate, we head straight for the bedroom. The moment the door closes behind us, the atmosphere shifts. The formal ceremony is over. Now it’s just us.

I turn to face them, my pulse quickening as I take in the way they’re looking at me. Like they want to devour me whole.

“My turn,” I say, my voice low.