Page 9 of A Bride for the Mafia King

He’s fearless. His presence alone commands attention. Unflinching in his sharply tailored black suit with a blood-red tie. His stance is confident, calm, coiled with power. And I can’t help but recognize that he is beautiful in the most dangerous sense of the word.

This man that I’m about to marry has seen things I’ve never imagined. Violence, untold horrors—and survived it. He’s probably delivered his fair share of violent acts as well. Yet, I don’t find myself fearful of him at this moment. In fact, I find that I’m more curious.

Who are you underneath it all, Tolya Ivanovich? Who am I going to find that I am bound to for life after this day?

We approach, and Nico’s hand tightens on my arm reflexively. Reaching the altar, he pauses, looking between me and then to Tolya. He offers Tolya my hand.

“Now I’ve kept my end of our bargain.” Nico’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks in a hushed tone so that only Tolya and I can hear.

“Indeed,” he acknowledges with a dismissive nod toward my brother. Turning to me fully, he guides me to stand evenly facing him. I’m not ready for the thrall that his voice has over me, his accent tantalizing as he speaks directly to me for the first time. “Eva, you are even more beautiful than I remember.”

The combination of the effect his voice has on me and the compliment itself has me blushing, heat rising within my center.

His gaze locks on me, never wavering as the officiant begins to speak. I only catch pieces of the words spoken. Something about unity, allegiance, strength, duty. All the right words to bind together two great empires.

But Tolya never takes his eyes from me. It’s both unnerving and enticing. His sharp eyes trace every inch of my face, like he’s studying me. Not just my appearance but the woman beneath the makeup, beneath the mask.

The intensity of it makes me feel exposed but still I wonder what his skin will feel like under my fingertips, what his mouth will taste like.

Knock that off, I chastise my wayward thoughts. Just because he is incredibly sexy and I am marrying him does not make me safe in his hands. Where is your self-preservation instinct, Eva, for fuck’s sake?

When the officiant finally says, “You may kiss the bride,” my entire body tenses.

Tolya steps in, drawing one strong arm behind my back and pulling me hard against him. His eyes darken visibly as he traces the side of my face with the pads of his fingers on the other hand.

Then he kisses me. With no hesitation, no polite reserve. No—this is possessive, passionate.

His mouth claims mine with purpose, his body crushing against me. My hands instinctively curl against his chest as his lips move against mine—hot, deep, unrelenting.

Desire surges through me like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The reaction shocks me, but I like it. The way my skin heats and something low in my stomach twists into knots.

A soft moan escapes me, unexpectedly. The sound only acts to encourage his actions further. And for a moment the entire world around us disappears as my head grows dizzy with euphoria.

When he finally pulls back, I’m utterly breathless. Unsteadily leaning against his strong arm that holds me at my waist. The pressure of his body against mine does things to me. Curiosity peaked. I can’t help but want more, a physical burning desire within me needs more.

My heart thunders within my chest as his gaze flickers to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“Zdravstvuy, zhena,” he murmurs. Hello, wife.

Chapter Four

Eva

Bratva Estate, 5:33 pm

The ceremony flies by in a flash, and I quickly learn that the reception that follows isn’t at all what I expect.

Tolya walks us up the aisle as man and wife into a lavishly decorated outer room. Here, we’re greeted by his men—Bratva men with hawk eyes and thick accents. The congratulations, or at least I assume that’s what the harsh-sounding Russian exchanges with my new husband are, are brief and hollow.

There are no toasts, no fits of laughter at the bride and groom’s expense, no cigar smoke filling the air in celebration. No music, no banquet table—nothing. Not a single familiar face nor familiar custom is anywhere to be found.

I stand off to the side, shadowed by Tolya’s large frame, suddenly feeling out of place in my white dress. Watching as he converses with his men.

One of them brings two glasses of a clear liquid to us, and I take a healthy drink—instantly choking. It earns me a scrutinizing look from some of the men standing nearby.

Vodka. I should have known.

Nico appears then, and I’m relieved to see him.