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Lyon stood inside the terrace doors, listening as Viktor began his speech to the assembled guests. He was acutely aware of Kira’s presence next to him, the faint scent of her perfume, heady and laced with an unusual trace of patchouli. It hinted at something exotic and wild, something that stood in contrast to her genteel persona.
His cock stirred in his trousers and he forced himself to focus on Viktor’s voice, coming from the other side of the terrace doors. His arrangement with Kira Baranov was one of strategy, not romance. He’d spent nearly two decades crafting his plan. No woman would distract him from it now that he was so close to attaining his prize.
Besides, there would be time enough to familiarize himself with his young wife.
The guests had been assembled under some secrecy, unusual both for its urgency and the lack of explanation. Lyon had no doubt they knew something important was afoot once they arrived at the Baranov mansion and saw the formal tables set for dinner on the sweeping lawn, the string quartet playing softly near the bar.
Did they have an idea what was coming? Or had Lyon and Viktor managed to keep it a secret in the two weeks since they’d come to an agreement, something they’d agreed was paramount for the safety of all?
Lyon betted on the latter. The fact that he was alive, that Viktor was alive, was all the proof he needed. If any of Lyon’s rivals had gotten wind of the arrangement, they would have moved quickly to take him out.
Now it was too late. Kira Baranov was his bride, her surname entwined with his. Once Viktor finished his announcement, their fates would be bound as well, both of them in danger until Lyon eliminated his competition.
And there would be competition.
Marrying Kira Baranov had never been a free pass to the bratva throne, but its ramifications were significant nonetheless. A majority in the organization weren’t seeking leadership. They were foot soldiers, men happy to make a decent living while being part of the Baranov brotherhood. These men would fall in line behind Viktor’s endorsement, pledging their fealty to Lyon as long as it looked like he had a chance at being victorious.
It was the others Lyon had to concern himself with.
“… and so, I am most pleased to announce the marriage of my beloved daughter, Kira Viktorovna Baranov, to Lyonya Stefanovich Antonov.” Even from the living room, Lyon heard the startled murmur roll through the assembled crowd. Viktor continued undeterred. “As you all know, I’m no longer a young man, which is why I hereby offer my support to Lyonya, both as my son-in-law and as leader of our esteemed organization. It is my hope that those of you present today will show him support as well, that you will encourage your soldiers to offer their support. To keep our enemies at bay, it’s imperative we remember that when all is said and done, we are brothers, we aresemya.” Viktor’s use of the Russian word for family would do little to calm those already plotting, but it might reassure some on the fence. “Together I’m most confident we will usher in a new era of peace and opportunity, for ourselves and for our children.”
The murmur had grown louder, something like a shout coming from somewhere in the crowd as Viktor’s butler opened the doors leading to the terrace.
Lyon blinked against the autumn sun, an assault on his eyes after the dim light in the library. He glanced down at Kira, wondering if the noise outside would be the thing to finally make her lose her composure. Nothing else had done it. Not the wedding or the silent drive from the church or the moments they’d spent in the living room while Viktor made his announcement.
She looked up at him without blinking, her expression serene. If she had any feelings at all — about him or their marriage or Viktor’s announcement or their questionable future — she kept them hidden behind a facade of placid, untouchable beauty.
He fought against an irrational surge of frustration. He’d expected her to be cowed by their arrangement, by the reality that from this day forward, she would for all intents and purposes be under his control.
It had been one of the things he’d most looked forward to in the long list of events that had to come to pass in order for him to take control of the Baranov organization: after a lifetime of looking at him as if he were dirt on her slender feet, Kira Baranov would be forced to acknowledge that he was her equal.
And yet she still looked at him as if he were of no consequence, as if she might have been standing next to anyone, as if she might have just pledged her life to any man.
But she hadn’t. She’d pledged her life to him. Was standing next to him.
Married to him.
He would make sure she understood that.
She slipped an arm through his and they stepped out of the living room. He plastered a smile on his face as they crossed the terrace to stand next to Viktor.
“Please help me welcome Mr. and Mrs. Lyonya Antonov,” Viktor announced.
Lyon had to hand it to the old man: he was playing father of the bride with aplomb, with no hint of the business negotiations that had gone into the arrangement.
Applause sounded from the crowd gathered on the lawn.
“Now… eat, drink, and be merry as we celebrate this momentous day,” Viktor said.
The string quartet started playing again, and Viktor bent to kiss Kira’s cheek. When he straightened, he met Lyon’s eye and nodded with something like a warning.
* * *
Three hours later, Lyon stood on the lawn. Around him, white lights shone like garlands of stars, candles flickering on the tables. The quartet had given way to a DJ, and most of the guests were either dancing or tossing back vodka at one of two bars set up at the edge of the dance floor.
Lyon was pleased with how the reception had been organized, though he’d had nothing to do with its planning. That had been taken care of by Kira and her father, at her request.
