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I don’t want to. I want to remain closed off, cold, inaccessible to him. I want to be somewhere else in my mind when it all happens. But I can feel a pull towards him that feels almost sinful, all things considered. When I think of who he is, what he’s done. No good girl, no goodmafiagirl, should want a man like this.
And I’ve always considered myself a good girl.
The wedding itself is a blur to me. I watch Viktor’s face through the veil as he says his vows, his hands holding mine, and I repeat mine without even really hearing what I’m saying. It doesn’t matter to me; I don’t mean any of it. It’s not like Franco, where I at least wanted totry. Where I might have known thatloveandcherishingweren’t on the table, but perhapshonorwas. I could try toobey. But here, I know that obedience isn’t optional. And this man has taken me, his captive bride. There’s no honor in that.
He was married once before,I remember. I don’t know what happened to his first wife. They were in love, I’d heard whispered around; it was a tragedy. I don’t remember if she’d left children behind. But looking at this hard-faced man, his jaw set as he listens to the priest speak, his fingers wrapped around my hands in a way that lets me know that he will choose when to let go, I feel the flutter of attraction replaced by fear.
What if he was responsible for what happened to his first wife?
I know nothing about who Viktor is as a person, beyond that he is Bratva and the kind of man who would ask for a woman’s hand in marriage as part of a bargain to stop the bloodshed. At least I’d known Franco a little at first. Viktor is a complete stranger to me. A mystery.
And if I have my way, he’ll remain so.
Somewhere, distantly, I hear the priest pronouncing us man and wife, and my blood goes cold, my skin tingling.It’s done.There’s no running away now, no escape, not that there ever was. I hear him instructing Viktor to kiss me, and when he lets go of my hands to lift my veil, they feel cold, too.
He’s going to kiss me.Somehow, I’d forgotten about this part. I’d forgotten that I’d have to touch him intimately before tonight, in front of all of these people. I know before his lips even touch mine that it will be a chaste kiss. Viktor doesn’t look like a man who would make out passionately with his bride in church before a crowd. But it still doesn’t prepare me for the touch of his lips on mine, firm and hard and faintly warm, or the way it sends a shudder through my body. A shudder of repulsion, I tell myself, but I’m not entirely sure.
Viktor takes my hand in his again as we turn to walk down the aisle, his fingers locking through mine, and his grip is firm, possessive even. I can feel it pressing the thin gold band of my wedding ring into my flesh, and I wonder if it will leave a mark, branding me as his.
The reception is being held in the Russian Tea Room. It’s clear when we walk in, the cheers of the assembled guests that it’s been rearranged for the celebration. Other than vast sprays of flowers, there wasn’t much that needed to be done in the way of decoration. I’ve never been here before, but it’s a dizzying cacophony of red and gold, with a large star chandelier and gilding everywhere. I catch a glimpse of Luca and Sofia, seated at a table with some other mafia Family members that I recognize. Still, most of the reception is full of strangers. I catch a glimpse of flaming red hair and flinch, missing a step as if I’ve seen a ghost, but when I catch sight of the lean, handsome face below the hair, I can see clearly that it’s not Franco.
Of course it’s not,I chastise myself.
He’s dead.
The red-haired man is probably Liam Macgregor, now the leader of the Irish crime syndicate since his father’s death. Viktor would have invited both of the other major families in the area, since this is an event meant to signify peace. He’ll want all of them to see that Luca accepted his offer and that he’s followed through and married me. That for now at least, the families can expect no more war from the Bratva.
It should feel good to have been part of brokering something like that, but since it was done with my life and body, all I can feel right now is a rising dread. The distraction of Viktor’s surprisingly handsome appearance has faded back into the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, thinking of what’s still to come tonight. It’s hard to enjoy any of this, knowing what lies ahead of me.
A cold, loveless, passionless marriage. I’ve always known better than to hope for much more—but isn’t that what everyone does? Hope for something more than the lot they’ve been given?
I’m in a daze as the reception commences. I can’t say what is served for dinner or if it tastes good or bad. Nor, can I remember the names of who I talked to after the fact or what I said. I keep a smile pasted on my face, nodding along, and I’m sure they are all pleased. The beautiful, smiling bride of Viktor Andreyev.
His hand rests on mine for a great deal of the night whenever we’re seated together, not a loving caress but a possessive one. When he’s not there, I stay put, a silent statue until he finally returns, and I realize as I come out of my daze that it’s time for us to dance.
Something else I hadn’t thought about.
The music that’s playing is slow and soft and sweet, romantic strings swelling and filling the air as Viktor’s broad palm slides over my narrow waist, his other hand holding mine. “You make a very beautiful bride,” he says quietly as we start to move in time to the music, my feet remembering the years of formal dancing lessons on their own, thankfully. “This dress would not look out of place in a ballroom back home.”
“Thank you,” I manage, not wanting to raise my eyes to meet his. I keep them demurely lowered instead, my heart racing, realizing that this is the beginning. This is the first thing he’s said to me since our vows, and it was a compliment. It suggests that maybe he does intend to be a kind husband, or at least not a cruel one. It also reminds me that this is the beginning of the game I will have to play with him, learning to manage him, his moods, how to keep my own sanity and sense of self without putting myself in danger. How to keep myself from simply dissolving into his world, vanishing like tissue in water.
He doesn’t say anything else after that, turning me elegantly as we spin around the dance floor. I’m suddenly very aware of the physical presence of him, of the press of his hand on my waist, the heat of it sinking through the fabric of my dress, the nearness of him. He’s not a large man in terms of bulk, tall and lean instead. Nevertheless, I find myself suddenly wondering what he’ll look like beneath his suit, if he’s thin or muscled, if he’s hiding a belly, or if he’ll get undressed at all.
Maybe he’ll just bend me over the bed, flip my skirt up, unzip and get it over with.It would be the quickest path, that’s for sure. Maybe the best one. But something about Viktor, about his presence, tells me that he’s not a man to cut corners. That if he does a thing, he does it thoroughly and carefully. That sends another flutter through my stomach because the last thing I want from him in bed isthoroughness. The only thing that I can think of that could be worse than not enjoying my wedding night with Viktor Andreyevisactually enjoying it.
“I haven’t planned a honeymoon for us,” he says, as the music starts to slow, the end of our song drawing near. “I’m not interested in pretending that our marriage is something that it isn’t. I see no point in that. But I have a room reserved for us tonight, in a luxury hotel. So for one night at least, I think we will pretend.”
My heart skips a beat in my chest, and this time I find the courage to look up at him. He’s looking down at me so that his gaze meets mine, and I see that his eyes are very blue, with a hint of grey. Eyes with the barest beginnings of a storm. I can see the muted desire there, but he looks calm. Measured, even. I wonder if this is a man who gets angry, and if he does, what it’s like. My father was cold and vicious in his anger, and Franco raged, hot and passionate and burning. Which one will Viktor be if he’s ever angry with me?
I drop my gaze again, hoping that the innocence of it will please him, and he won’t push me for my own feelings about it. I hear him breathe in as if he’s going to say something else, but then the music changes to something fast and bright, and the entire energy of the room changes too. I almost trip; I’m so startled as Viktor passes me to someone else. I see what almost might be the ghost of a smile on his face before I’m suddenly swept up in an unfamiliar dance involving the entire crowd that sends me spinning from partner to partner. It’s a whirl that I barely manage, and once again, the tedious lessons that my mother insisted on are paying off. I certainly never learned any Russian dances, but I can follow the rhythm of the music. As I try to catch my breath, I realize that despite the unfamiliarity of it, I’m actually holding my own. I’m whirling like a dervish as I spin into set of arms after set of arms that I don’t recognize, my fingers lacing through unfamiliar hands as the circles change, the men and women separating and then coming back together again. I’m panting by the time it’s over, and I realize with surprise that it was almost fun. The closest thing to fun, in fact, that I’ve had all night.
As I look for my new husband, I have a strange thought, Viktor might actually be proud of me. After all, I’m an Italian mafia girl, raised with our customs and our dances, and I managed to keep up with his despite being thrown into it with no warning. I’m not sure why I would even care—but some small part of me feels a twinge of disappointment when I catch sight of him, and his face is once again stern and impassive, his blue eyes flinty.
“Can I have this dance?”
I hear Luca’s voice at my elbow as the music slows again, and I turn towards him as I nod, relieved to see a familiar face. He reaches for my hand, steering me back onto the dance floor, keeping a respectable space between us as we begin to move through the steps of the dance.
“How are you holding up?” he asks quietly, and with that one question, the buoyant feeling left from the dance fades away, and I’m reminded all over again why we’re all here. That I’m no longer Caterina Rossi, or even Caterina Bianchi, but Caterina Andreyv. A Bratva wife—something that I don’t even understand. A role that I have no idea how to play.
