Page 38 of Bound in Possession

Camilla appears.

My chest tightens, a sudden, fierce possessiveness slamming into my lungs as I watch her step into the light. She is breathtaking. The ivory gown is a masterpiece of heavy silk and intricate lace, hugging the soft curves of her waist before cascading down into a dramatic, sweeping train. The veil catches the light like a halo, but my eyes bypass the fabric entirely, locking immediately onto her face.

She looks like a queen walking toward her throne—defiant, beautiful, and utterly mesmerizing. And right at her throat, the heavy diamonds of my necklace catch the light, flashing brilliantly for every eye in the room to see. My mark of protection, resting perfectly on her skin.

Walking beside her, keeping a tight grip on her elbow, is her father. Massimo walks with his chin held high, trying to project the image of a powerful patriarch handing off his greatest asset. But I see right through the facade. I see the subtle tension in his shoulders, the realization that his grip on the city is slipping, and that today, he officially loses his hold on her.

As they bridge the distance down the long aisle, Camilla keeps her eyes fixed forward. When she finally raises her gaze to meet mine, the air between us crackles. There is still a lingering, angry heat in her eyes from our encounter in our room, a beautiful, stubborn fire that I fully intend to stoke later tonight.

They reach the steps of the altar. Massimo stops, turning to look at me as he carefully lifts Camilla’s hand from his arm. He takes a step forward, his expression hardening into a stern, traditional mask as he prepares to give her away. He places her hand in mine, his eyes offering a silent, loaded warning that I dismiss without a second thought. He couldn't protect her from Viktor. I already am.

The moment her small, delicate hand rests in my large palm, a profound sense of finality settles over me. Her fingers are slightly cool, trembling just a fraction against my skin. I tighten my grip, anchoring her to my side, letting the heat of my palm ground her.

I look down at her, a low, lethal promise reflecting in my eyes as we turn together to face the priest.

The ceremony starts.

The priest’s voice echoes through the cavernous cathedral, reading the ancient, sacred liturgy, but the words blur into the background. The priest finishes his reading, his voice echoing off the stained glass as he gestures for us to face each other.

I turn fully, my large frame completely blocking her from the view of the front pews, forcing her entire world to shrink down to just the space between us. I take her other hand, holding both of her delicate palms securely in my grip. Camilla looks up, her chin lifted, her dark eyes flashing with that beautiful, stubborn defiance that makes my blood run hot.

"Maksim," the priest prompts smoothly. "Repeat after me."

I look straight into her eyes, my voice cutting through the cavernous cathedral, deep, gravelly, and absolute. "I, Maksim Sokolov, take you, Camilla Caruso, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."

My fingers tighten just a fraction around hers on the last words. Till death do us part. In our world, it isn't just a traditional phrase. It’s a literal guarantee. I am binding her to a life of shadows and violence, but I am also swearing to tear down anyone who dares try to part us.

Camilla swallows hard, the diamonds at her throat catching the light as her chest rises and falls with a shallow breath. She doesn't break eye contact. She holds my gaze, her voice ringing out clear and steady through the quiet room, carrying the weight of her own family's legacy.

"I, Camilla Caruso, take you, Maksim Volkov, to be my wedded husband," she says, her tone tight but fiercely resolute. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."

Saying those words to me—the man who had her pinned against his desk just yesterday—flushes her cheeks with a faint, beautiful heat. The sheer surreality of the moment settles over me like a heavy fog, but my face remains a perfect, unreadable mask.

The priest blesses the rings. I take the heavy platinum band, my eyes never leaving hers as I slowly slide it onto her finger, my thumb smoothing over her knuckle to anchor her. She takes my ring, her hands trembling just a fraction as she mimics the gesture, sealing the vow.

"By the power vested in me," the priest declares, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

I don't wait. I step closer, my hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, my thumb resting right against her pulse point. I lean down and press my lips to hers—a slow, deep, possessive kiss that commands her complete submission in front of God and every enemy in New York.

Because of the high-stakes threat still looming over the city, the grand celebration afterward is intentionally kept short, with only the most necessary and high-ranking guests present at the secure reception venue. There is no room for mistakes, and my security detail lines the perimeter like a wall of iron.

As the music swells for the formal segment of the evening, Camilla turns to me, her fingers resting lightly on the lapel of my tuxedo. "I want to dance with my sisters," she says.

I look at her for a long beat, taking in the elegant curve of her neck and the glittering diamond collar resting perfectly against her skin. "Go," I murmur softly, releasing my hold on her waist. "Enjoy them."

She offers a tight nod and walks away, her heavy ivory train sweeping across the polished ballroom floor. I watch her until she reaches her sisters, watching the genuine, bright smile that breaks across her face the moment they pull her into a tight circle.

Satisfied that she is surrounded by family and heavily guarded, I turn on my heel and drift toward the far corner of the ballroom. Dmitri is already waiting there, subtly gesturing toward a group of our most important international guests and high-ranking Capos who are waiting to pay their respects—and discuss the next phase of the war.

I handle the greetings politely, shaking hands and accepting nods of respect from the powerful men surrounding me. My eyes constantly track the perimeter, always knowing exactly where Camilla is on the dance floor.

As I am speaking to a high-ranking Capo about territory lines, my eyes scan the VIP section of the ballroom. A cold realization clicks into place.

"Where the hell is Lev?" I ask Dmitri under my breath, my voice lowering into a curious murmur.

Lev is one of our most critical international allies, controlling major supply chains. He was supposed to be here for the wedding, and he is never late.

Dmitri frowns, his gaze sweeping the room before looking back at me. "He hasn't arrived yet. His security team hasn't checked in either."