Page 8 of A Bride for the Mafia King

My fingers clench together in my lap as the SUV pulls to a stop in front of a marble staircase.

“Ready?” Nico asks.

Not even in the slightest.

“Yes,” I manage to say.

Inside, the beautiful building is just as bold—everything is contrasting shades of white and deep red throughout. A pair of stoic men in suits meet us in the front entryway. After thoroughly checking Nico for weapons of any sort, they guide us through a maze of hallways to a private room.

“Someone will be in to get you when the ceremony is ready to start,” one of the men tells us. His Russian accent is thick and heavy.

There’s something I’ll have to get used to. I should have learned Russian years ago. No time like the present, I suppose.

Once they leave, the only sound in the room is the clicking of an antique grandfather clock against the wall. A full mirror stands beside it.

I cross to stand in front of the mirror, smoothing the front of my dress again. My hand trembles slightly. Everything suddenly feels real.

This is really happening. Pull it together, Eva.

Nico sits on a velvet couch against the opposite wall, crossing a leg over his knee and checking his watch. Cool as can be.

I draw in another breath and silently remind myself to think of this as just a job. Like any other job. Just another role to play in this life.

Be useful. Be the solution to the problem. Secure the alliance. Protect the family. Protect Nico.

It’s that last part that strikes home and finally helps to settle the flood of emotions within me. Protect Nico. I can do that. I will do that.

Within minutes, a gentle knock sounds at the door and it slowly swings open. One of the men from earlier appears behind it.

“We are ready for you now.”

My brother rises from the couch, crosses the room to me, and offers his hand, asking me in Italian, “You’re sure about this?”

I don’t miss the grim look that falls over the Russian’s face at the question. Obviously, he doesn’t like that we aren’t speaking in English and that he doesn’t understand Italian.

“Not in the slightest, but I’m going through with it,” I respond in the same tongue.

Then switching to English and offering the guard a slight smile, I say, “Of course.”

Nico squeezes my hand firmly and we step out of the room to follow the guard. We stay back far enough to speak in privacy, keeping our voices low in hushed Italian.

“I meant what I said earlier, you look beautiful. And thank you—for doing this. For us both.”

I nod.

Turning down yet another hallway—this place an utter maze—we come to a large oak door. It opens slowly as we approach, revealing a stunningly decorated room, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows on either side.

The floor is a gleaming marble white shot with odd veins of crimson throughout. A narrow aisle cuts through the center of the room, seats on each side. Everyone in attendance is dressed in a dark suit—all men—their expressions stern and unreadable.

But I barely see any of them. My eyes lock onto the man waiting for me at the end of the short aisle.

Tolya Ivanovich. My soon-to-be husband.

His bright blue eyes bore into me and I’m momentarily mesmerized by their allure. Tall, broad-shouldered, his muscular arms pull at the seams of his jacket. The scar across his face adds a ferocity to his appearance that is both daunting and tantalizing. It only stands to accentuate the perfect hard lines of his cheekbones.

Oh god, he’s even sexier up close. My lips part in admiration of the fine man in front of me. No one in the Italian ranks could touch the sex appeal of this Russian stud. Perhaps I’m the lucky one in this exchange after all.

My hand twitches with the sudden urge to run my fingertips over it. His hair is brushed back and perfectly set and I wonder what it would look like mussed as I run my hand through it. My eyes narrow in on his lips, lushes and full nearly out of place set within such a perfect face.