Bella
THREE MONTHS LATER
The chateau garden smells like lavender and old stone and the particular sweetness of French countryside air.
I'm getting married today.
The wedding is small. Just family and a few of Slava’s closest associates. Three months ago, it would’ve been a very short guest list and a very complicated definition of the word family, but time and survival have a funny way of redrawing those lines.
Anthony walks ahead of me down the aisle, carrying a pillow bearing two rings with solemn concentration. His dark hair is combed and his face is set in an expression of total determination that I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.
Alessandro walks beside him like they've been doing this their whole lives.
The two of them reach the altar and turn, and Anthony gives me a toothy smile so pure and so earnest that my eyes start stinging with tears.
The garden path to the altar is lined with wildflowers. I look to my right and see Ludmilla is crying tears of happiness.
She started crying before the ceremony even began, and she shows no signs of stopping. The handkerchief in her hand has already been soaked through, and she pulls out a new one by the time I reach the altar.
Lydia sits to her side, green eyes matching her dress as she beams at me. Nico is a seat behind her, and every once in a while, his amber eyes keep darting to her hair, while she does her best to pretend like he’s not there.
Interesting.
But the only eyes I care about right now are my husband’s winter gray, and they haven't left me for a single second.
Up close, the gray is shot through with green and blue—flecks of color I used to miss because I was too busy reading his gaze as a threat. I drink in his face as I look at him. Sharp cheekbones, sculpted jaw, that tiny scar on his chin that I’ve traced and kissed night after night.
When Slava slides the band onto my finger, I look down and see a delicate pattern etched into the gold that looks, at first glance, like an abstract design. But as he gives it one final turn, I recognize what that design is.
His thumbprint.
I look at him and see the knowing smile on his face.
"I figured since you used this to open something where I used to keep my heart," he says. "You might as well have it on you always."
I stare at him. "You're insane."
"And yet you agreed to marry me.”
Fair point.
Alik says the words as he officiates and I hear none of them because Slava is looking at me.
And when Slava’s lips meet mine to mark me as his wife, I know that this is where I belong.
Not the chateau. Not the garden. Not France.
But in the specific, irreplaceable geography that is Slava Romanov's arms, with his mouth on mine and his heartbeat under my palm.
Here, where every lie fell away and every secret was confessed and every wound was given air until it closed.
Where two people who weaponized love against each other finally laid down their arms and chose to be defenseless together.
His lips taste like promises, and I kiss him back with everything I have.
The reception is in full swing when I spot them.
Lydia stands near the bar, champagne in hand. Her hair is swept up and she is radiating the energy of a woman who is having a wonderful time and does not need anyone's help to continue having it.
A second later, I see Nico approaching her with that arrogant swagger that apparently runs in the D'Ambrosio bloodline like a genetic predisposition toward bad decisions.
He's the Don now. Three months into the role, and his angular jaw and amber eyes have settled into an authority that looks disturbingly natural on him. The scar running from his ear to his chin catches the evening light.
He says something once he gets close. Whatever it is, I'm too far away to hear it, but I can read the trajectory of the interaction like a weather forecast.
The champagne glass tilts at a dangerous angle.
And she throws it in his face.
The champagne catches the garden lights on its way to Nico's very expensive suit, and for a brief moment, golden droplets hang in the air like fireflies before they drip down from Nico’s hair. Then, she storms away, and refuses to ever look back at him.
To my surprise, he laughs.
He stands there with champagne dripping down his lapels and his designer shirt plastered to his chest and laughs with the genuine, surprised, full-bodied delight of a man who has just encountered something he did not see coming and finds it thrilling.
I feel Slava's chest press against my back as I watch. His arm slides around my waist, his chin settling near my ear, and his breath is warm against my neck.
"That's going to be trouble," he murmurs.
I watch Nico's gaze follow Lydia across the garden.
"Mmm." I lean back into Slava's chest. "The good kind."
Later, much later, I stand at the window of the master suite, body deliciously sore, and watch the moonlight paint the French countryside silver while Slava's arms wrap around me from behind. His naked chest is warm against my back and his hand settles on my belly just below the navel.
Sweat drips down and fills the space between us, and we stand there in the night and breathe in our shared air as our hearts sync as one.
There, just below where his hand touches, I can feel the new life that’s been slowly taking shape for weeks now.
It’s too early to be visible right now, and far too early for anyone else to notice just yet. Only the two of us know.
New life, after so much death.
"Happy?" he asks.
I think about the woman who walked into his office all those months ago, carrying a fake identity, a stolen necklace, and a heart so armored she'd forgotten there was anything underneath the brittle steel.
I press my lips to his hand around my waist, and think about the belief I held like scripture for five years: Love makes you vulnerable. Vulnerability gets people killed.
I was not wrong. Love did make me vulnerable. Vulnerability did nearly get me killed. But the belief was incomplete.
Love is dangerous. And it is worth every single thing it costs.
"Happy," I tell him.
And it's the truth.
THE END