7. Tristan
TRISTAN
T he Cathedral of Saint Mary is packed to capacity, every pew filled with the most powerful crime families from Miami, Boston, New York, and beyond.
The guest list reads like a who's who of organized crime on the East Coast, and every one of them is here for the same reason—to witness the legitimization of my claim to the Russo empire.
I stand at the altar in a custom-made black tuxedo, adjusting my cufflinks for the third time in as many minutes.
Traditional music plays in the background as I scan the crowd, cataloging faces and making mental notes about who's here and who's conspicuously absent.
Konstantin sits in the front row with his wife, his presence a clear endorsement of this union.
My father is beside him, looking every inch the proud patriarch, though I know his satisfaction has nothing to do with paternal affection and everything to do with the expansion of O'Malley influence.
But despite the political theater playing out in the pews behind me, I find my attention focused entirely on the doors at the back of the cathedral, waiting for my first glimpse of my bride.
The wedding march begins, and a collective hush falls over the congregation. I turn toward the aisle, and my breath catches in my throat.
Simone is walking toward me alone. I’m hardly surprised that she refused an escort, and a small part of me flares with anger—she’s flouting a tradition at exactly the time when we need tradition the most. But there’s a flicker of respect, too—even today, a day that I know she’s dreaded, she refuses to bend.
To be told that she must do something other than what she’s absolutely required to do.
I don’t know whether to tell her I’m proud of her or take her over my knee to spank her ass red. The latter thought makes my cock swell against my thigh, and I have to shove the very pretty image out of my head before I get an erection right in front of the priest.
It doesn’t help that she looks utterly stunning, either.
The ivory silk dress that she’s wearing glides over her every curve, glowing in the light streaming through the stained glass windows.
Her dark hair is swept up in an elegant updo, with a few tendrils framing her face, and the cathedral-length veil flows behind her like something from a fairy tale.
She carries herself with the poise of a queen, her head held high despite the circumstances that brought her here, and walks without faltering, even though I know she’d rather flee.
She won’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on some point beyond my shoulder, refusing to meet mine. She looks like she's walking to her execution rather than her wedding, and something about that stoic resignation makes my chest tight.
Not that I care, I remind myself. I want her—her empire, her inheritance, her body—and all of that is about to be handed to me, after this brief ceremony.
Her feelings about it aren’t important. What’s more, I like her angry, so I shouldn’t care that she looks as if she's made peace with her fate, but hasn't found any happiness in it.
She stops next to me, holding out her hand for me to take it, and a surge of possessiveness that courses through me. Mine. After today, she'll be mine in every way that matters—legally, socially, and soon enough, physically.
"You look beautiful," I murmur as the priest begins the ceremony.
She doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken. Her hand in mine is steady but cold, like she's retreated somewhere deep inside herself to endure this.
The ceremony proceeds with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a mafia wedding.
The priest speaks about love and devotion and till death do us part, words that feel hollow given the circumstances but serve their purpose for the audience.
When we're asked to recite our vows, Simone's voice is clear and steady, giving no hint of her inner turmoil.
But I can feel the tension in her body, see the way her jaw is clenched beneath her serene expression.
She's playing her part perfectly, but she's hating every moment of it.
When the priest asks if I take Simone to be my wife, I answer with conviction. "I do." There’s no part of me that wants out of this marriage. Happy wife or no, I’m very much looking forward to the life that I’m going to share with her.
When he asks her the same question, there's the briefest pause—so quick that most people probably don't notice it. But I do. I feel the moment of hesitation, the last flutter of rebellion before she surrenders to the inevitable.
"I do," she says, and the words sound like a death knell.
"You may kiss the bride."
This is it. The moment that makes it official, that seals her fate and legitimizes my claim to everything that was once Giovanni Russo's. I should keep it simple, appropriate for the setting—a chaste kiss that satisfies tradition without causing scandal.
Instead, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her like I mean it.
Her lips are soft and warm beneath mine, and for a moment she goes completely still, shocked by the intensity of it.
She tastes like fruit and champagne, and I can’t resist the urge to lick her lower lip, pushing my tongue into her mouth as I claim her fully, in front of everyone gathered here, letting them all see that this is my fucking wife .
I feel her start to respond despite herself, her mouth opening slightly under the pressure of mine.
It's just for a second, just long enough for me to savor her, before she remembers where we are and tries to pull away.
I can hear the murmur of surprised voices from the congregation, feel her hands pushing against my chest in protest.
When I finally release her, her cheeks are flushed and her breathing is uneven. She stares at me with a mixture of shock and fury that makes me want to kiss her again.
"Really?" she hisses under her breath, quiet enough that only I can hear.
"Really," I confirm, not bothering to look repentant.
The priest clears his throat uncomfortably, clearly flustered by the display, but he manages to complete the ceremony. "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The cathedral erupts in expected applause as we turn to face our guests, but I can feel Simone's tension ratcheting higher with every passing second. She plasters a smile on her face that doesn't reach her eyes and waves to the crowd like the perfect mafia princess she was raised to be.
But I know it's costing her everything.
The reception is held at the Fontainebleau, in a ballroom that's been transformed into something fit for royalty. Tables are draped in ivory silk and lace place settings, flowers cover every available surface, and a string quartet plays covers of pop music as we enter to the polite applause of the guests, who are eating passed hors d’oeuvres and sipping champagne.
Simone and I sit at the head table, presiding over the celebration like the king and queen we've essentially become—or a prince and princess, perhaps, second only to Konstantin and his family empire.
She's changed into a second dress for the reception—a white silk gown that splits up the side and frames her collarbones and upper chest, showcasing a stunning sapphire necklace.
She looks every inch the perfect mafia wife—beautiful and poised and utterly untouchable.
The problem is, she's treating me like I'm untouchable, too.
Every attempt at conversation is met with monosyllabic responses. When I try to take her hand, she finds excuses to pull away. During the first dance, she holds herself so rigidly in my arms that we look more like strangers than newlyweds.
"Smile," I murmur in her ear as we sway to the music. "People are watching."
"I am smiling." She stretches her mouth wider, a rictus grin, and I frown.
"That's not a smile. That's a grimace."
"It's the best you're going to get."
I spin her away from me and then pull her back, using the movement to press her closer against my chest. "This is our wedding reception, Simone.
The least you could do is pretend you're happy to be here. It’s your job.
Your duty ," I remind her. “It didn’t end with saying I do . This is just the beginning.”
She looks at me as if she’s seething, as if there’s nothing she wants less than to be reminded of her duties by the man she just married. I can feel the hatred oozing off of her, and it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the night.
It isn’t doing much for the show we’re supposed to put on, either.
I can see some of the guests whispering, and my father is glaring daggers at me.
“We’re supposed to be putting on a spectacle,” I hiss at her, as the music changes.
“Showing the criminal underworld of the East Coast that there’s been a transfer of power.
Not that I’ve kidnapped you, like you’re behaving as if I have. ”
Simone flashes me a sweet smile, the first all night. “Haven’t you? I thought you were all about honesty , Tristan. Honesty is that I’m not here of my own free will.”
My jaw tightens. "I want you to accept reality. This is happening whether you like it or not. You can make the best of it, or you can spend the rest of your life being miserable. Your choice."
"How generous of you to give me a choice about something."
The song ends, and she immediately steps out of my arms, smoothing down her skirt with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be.
Around us, guests applaud politely, but I can see the speculation in their eyes.
They're wondering about the dynamic between the new Mr. and Mrs. O'Malley, trying to read the subtext of our interactions.
What they're seeing isn't encouraging for the stability of this alliance.