Chapter 2 - Viktor
The cathedral was packed with enough firepower to level a small country.
Nikolais on one side, Volkovs on the other, all of them armed to the teeth and pretending to be civilized for the sake of this farce Viktor had orchestrated.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that he was getting married in a house of God when what he was about to do was anything but holy.
He stood at the altar in his custom Armani tuxedo, hands clasped behind his back to hide the way they were shaking. Not from nerves. From fucking rage that had been building for four years, eating away at his insides like acid until he wasn’t sure there was anything left of the man he used to be.
“You look like you’re about to murder someone,” Kostya whispered from beside him, adjusting his tie. Viktor’s brother was playing the role of best man, though they both knew this wedding was more of a funeral than a celebration.
“Maybe I am,” Viktor muttered back, scanning the crowd. Every face was a potential threat, every smile hiding a knife. This was the world they lived in, where even weddings were battlefields disguised as ceremonies.
The organ music started, and Viktor’s spine went rigid. This was it. Four years of planning, four years of maneuvering pieces on the chessboard, all leading to this moment. The moment he finally got his hands on the woman who’d destroyed him.
Irina appeared first, walking down the aisle in some flowing blue thing that made her look like a fucking angel.
Viktor’s baby sister had insisted on being Anka’s maid of honor, claiming it would help bridge the gap between their families.
If only she knew the real reason behind this union.
If only she knew that her beloved brother was about to become the monster their father had always said he’d be.
She smiled at him as she took her place, and Viktor forced himself to smile back. Irina deserved happiness, even if it came at the cost of his. Even if it meant he had to become something cold and calculating to protect it.
Then the wedding march began, and every molecule of oxygen was sucked out of the cathedral.
Anka appeared at the end of the aisle on Matvei’s arm, and Viktor forgot how to breathe.
Four years. Four fucking years since he’d seen her face, and she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
The wedding dress hugged every curve of her plus-sized figure, the same body that had driven him wild with want, the same soft skin he’d mapped with his hands and mouth until he knew every freckle, every sensitive spot that made her gasp his name.
She was fuller now than she’d been at twenty, her hips wider, her breasts more generous, and Christ help him, she was even more stunning than he remembered.
The woman walking toward him wasn’t the girl who’d pretended to be a college student four years ago.
This was Anka Volkov in all her glory, a Bratva princess who commanded respect with every step she took.
Her golden hair was piled high on her head, leaving her neck exposed, and Viktor had to clench his fists to keep from remembering what it felt like to press his lips to that exact spot.
The way she’d arch her back and whisper his name like a prayer.
The way she’d melt in his arms like she was made for him.
But that had all been a lie, hadn’t it?
As she got closer, he could see her face more clearly. The hazel eyes that used to look at him like he hung the fucking moon were carefully blank, her expression serene and pleasant. The perfect Bratva bride, playing her part to perfection.
Viktor’s chest tightened with something that felt dangerously close to longing, and he ruthlessly crushed it down.
This wasn’t the woman he’d fallen in love with.
That woman had never existed. This was Anka Volkov, the bitch who’d played him for a fool, who’d made him believe in fairy tales and happy endings before ripping his heart out and leaving him bleeding.
She reached the altar, and Matvei placed her hand in Viktor’s with all the ceremony of a business transaction. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A merger. A strategic alliance sealed with vows and rings and the promise of shared blood.
Her skin was soft and warm, exactly like he remembered, and Viktor had to fight the urge to stroke his thumb across her knuckles. Instead, he gripped her hand tight enough to bruise, satisfaction flooding through him when he saw her wince.
The priest began his spiel about love and commitment, and ‘till death do us part,’ but Viktor wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the woman beside him, cataloging every change, every new line around her eyes, every subtle difference four years had carved into her face.
She’d lost weight in her face, he realized. The soft roundness he remembered was gone, replaced by sharper cheekbones and hollows under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and lost appetites. Good. He hoped she’d suffered even a fraction of what he had.
“Do you, Viktor Nikolai, take Anka Volkov to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
The words felt like glass in his throat. “I do.”
“Do you, Anka Volkov, take Viktor Nikolai to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
There was the slightest hesitation before she answered, so brief he might have imagined it. “I do.”
Liar. They were both fucking liars, standing in front of God and their families and promising to love and cherish each other when what they really wanted was to draw blood.
The priest said something about rings, and Kostya handed Viktor the platinum band he’d chosen specifically because it would mark her as his. He slipped it onto her finger with more force than necessary, watching her jaw tighten as the metal bit into her skin.
She returned the favor, sliding his ring into place with steady hands that betrayed nothing of whatever she was feeling inside.
Her fingers were ice cold against his skin, and Viktor wondered if she was as affected by this as he was.
If seeing him again was tearing her apart, looking at her was destroying him.
“You may kiss the bride.”
The moment Viktor had been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
He stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume.
It was different now, something darker and more sophisticated than the light floral scent she’d worn at twenty.
Everything about her had changed, evolved, grown more dangerous.
Viktor cupped her face in his hands, feeling her sharp intake of breath as his thumbs traced her cheekbones. For just a second, her mask slipped, and he saw something raw and vulnerable flash through her eyes. Something that looked almost like regret.
Then he kissed her, hard and possessive, claiming her mouth like he had every right to it.
She kissed him back, and fuck, she tasted exactly the same.
Like coffee and something sweeter, something that was purely her.
For a heartbeat, Viktor forgot where they were, forgot why they were here, forgot everything except the way she felt in his arms.
Then reality crashed back down, and he pulled away, his breathing ragged. The crowd was cheering, throwing rice and flower petals, as if this were a real wedding instead of an elaborate revenge plot.
“Congratulations, brother,” Ilya said, clapping Viktor on the shoulder as they made their way down the aisle. “She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” Viktor managed. “She is.”
The reception was held at the Volkov estate, a sprawling mansion that reeked of old money and older blood.
Viktor kept Anka close as they made the rounds, his hand possessive on the small of her back, playing the devoted husband for an audience that included some of the most dangerous men on the East Coast.
She was good at this; he had to give her that. She charmed everyone she met, laughing at their jokes, asking about their families, playing the perfect hostess even though this wasn’t her party. She had them all eating out of her hand within minutes, just like she’d done to him four years ago.
“Your bride is delightful,” Romano commented as they stood near the bar, watching Anka dance with his daughter, Valentina. “Ilya chose well.”
Viktor took a long sip of whiskey, letting the burn distract him from the sight of Anka’s body moving to the music. “She’ll do.”
“High praise from you,” Romano chuckled. “Though I have to say, she doesn’t look like a woman madly in love with her new husband.”
Viktor followed his gaze and saw what he meant. Even as she smiled, laughed, and played her part, there was a distance in her eyes, a careful emptiness that spoke of walls built high and thick. She was protecting herself, just like he was.
“Love is a luxury in our business,” Viktor said. “This is about family. About alliance.”
“Of course.” But Romano’s eyes were knowing as he studied Viktor’s face. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort. She’s your wife now, after all.”
Before Viktor could respond, the music changed to something slow and romantic, and tradition demanded he dance with his bride. He set down his glass and crossed the dance floor, ignoring the way conversations died as he approached.
“Dance with me,” he said, holding out his hand.
She looked at it like it might bite her, but she couldn’t refuse without causing a scene. Her hand slipped into his, and Viktor pulled her into his arms, one hand on her waist, the other clasping her fingers.
She fit against him perfectly, just like she always had. Her head came up to his shoulder, her body soft and curved in all the right places. Viktor could feel the warmth of her skin through the silk of her dress, could smell her perfume mixing with something that was uniquely her.
“You’re quite the actress,” he said as they swayed to the music. “Anyone watching would think you’re actually happy about this arrangement.”
Her mask didn’t slip, but Viktor felt her stiffen in his arms. “I’m doing my job.”
“And what job is that? Professional liar? You certainly have enough experience.”
That got a reaction. Her hazel eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, Viktor saw the real Anka underneath the perfect facade. The woman who used to argue with him about everything from politics to pizza toppings, who had opinions and fire and wasn’t afraid to use both.
“Fuck you,” she whispered, her voice so low only he could hear it.
“Careful, wife. People are watching.”
She leaned closer, her lips barely brushing his ear as she spoke.
“Let me make something very clear, Viktor. The only reason I’m here, the only reason I agreed to this farce, is because I love my family.
Not because I want to be here, not because I have any illusions about what this marriage means, and certainly not because I give a fuck about you or your feelings. ”
The words hit like physical blows, even though Viktor had expected them. Known them. But hearing her say it out loud, hearing the ice in her voice when she talked about not caring about his feelings, made something crack in his chest.
“Good,” he said, spinning her around so her back was pressed against his chest. “Because the feeling is mutual. I wouldn’t want you to get confused about why you’re really here.”
“And why am I here, Viktor?” Her voice was steady, but Viktor could feel the tension radiating through her body.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Because four years ago, you made the mistake of fucking with a Nikolai. And now you’re going to spend the rest of your life paying for it.”
She turned in his arms, and for just a second, her carefully constructed mask cracked completely.
Viktor saw pain flash across her features, raw and honest, and so familiar it made his chest ache.
This was the woman he’d fallen in love with, the one who felt everything so deeply it sometimes overwhelmed her.
Then the mask slammed back into place, and she was Anka Volkov again. Untouchable. Unreachable.
“Then I guess we both got what we wanted,” she said. “You got your revenge, and I got to save my family from a war that would have destroyed everything my father built.”
The song ended, and she stepped out of Viktor’s arms before he could respond. But as she walked away, her hips swaying in that dress that hugged every curve, Viktor caught her words echoing in his head.
She’d done it to save her family from war. Not because she’d gotten bored with him, not because she’d accomplished whatever mission she’d been on. She’d left to protect the people she loved.
Just like Viktor was marrying her to protect Irina’s happiness.
The realization should have made him feel better, should have validated the choice he’d made four years ago to wait for the perfect revenge. Instead, it made him feel like the bastard he’d become.
But it was too late for regrets now. Too late for second chances or explanations or anything that might have led to forgiveness.
Viktor had wanted Anka Volkov to be his wife, and now she was.
But what the hell was he going to do with her now that he had her?