7. Chapter 7
7
Konstantin
B y the time the third toast is made and the fifth vodka shot is poured, I’m convinced half the room is only pretending not to sweat.
They’re all doing their best impressions of joy. Laughing too loud. Smiling too hard. As if this is just another wedding and not the very thing standing between me and the power seat they’ve all been quietly circling for years.
I’m not Pakhan yet. Not officially. But tonight? This is the move that makes the rest inevitable.
They know it. Filipp knows it.
He was never supposed to be at the church.
And yet, there he was—sliding in with that smug little smirk, a rat in a tailored suit, acting like he hadn’t spent the last year bribing half the table with our father’s name and a handshake soaked in bullshit.
I should’ve had him dragged out on sight. Instead, I let him shake her hand. Let him test the line.
Then I broke it.
Now he’s gone. Quietly removed. Respectfully escorted. But every man in this room saw it. Every man understood exactly what it meant.
They can laugh and drink and offer their congratulations, but none of them are stupid. They’re here because they know the war is almost over—and they’re making damn sure they back the right side before the dust settles.
Earlier, I stopped at the head table where my mother’s been sitting like royalty, sipping wine and pretending none of this touches her.
“You could at least pretend to be happy,” I said.
She swirled the glass, not even glancing up. “Why would I do that?”
“It’s a wedding.”
She raised one brow. “It’s a negotiation.”
That’s what she thinks this is. That I’ve settled. Found some girl with no ties, no name, no power—and brought her into this family to check a box.
She’s not wrong. But she’s missing the point.
I didn’t marry Bella to make my mother proud.
I married her so Filipp can never touch the throne.
I scan the ballroom until I find her. Bella.
Sitting with one heel off, the other barely hanging on. Her shoulders are stiff. Her glass is half-full and untouched. Her dress is stunning, but the exhaustion’s starting to show in the way she blinks—like her brain’s buffering every five seconds.
She’s been smiled at, complimented, whispered about, and politely interrogated more in the last hour than some of these people get in a year.
She hasn’t cracked. Not once. But I can see it.
And the worst part? I like how it looks on her.
I walk up behind her and place a hand on her hip, leaning in just enough to speak into her ear.
“If one more man looks at your tits like that, I’m going to need a new carpet.”
She exhales slowly through her nose, like the whole world’s testing her patience, takes a slow sip from her glass.
“If one more man tells me how lucky I am, I’m going to need a new dress,” she mutters.
“You won’t be wearing it long.”
“God, you’re romantic.”
“Married you, didn’t I?”
“You bought me.”
“Same thing.”
She nearly cracks a smile, but it doesn’t stick. Her eyes stay sharp, unyielding—like she’s buzzing with something electric now, a live wire I can’t stop watching. Good. My pulse is hammering right along with it.
She follows my gaze across the room, and her lips press together.
“Your mom hates me.”
“She hates everyone.”
“Good to know I’m not special.”
“You’re special,” I say, slipping my fingers into hers. “You’re the reason half this room’s trying not to shit themselves.”
“Aw. Sweet talker.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I won’t.”
I smile. Not because she’s wrong—but because I’m starting to realize I don’t want her to get used to it. I want her a little raw. A little stubborn. Just like this.
Arseny appears like a ghost at my elbow.
“Filipp’s still in the city.”
Of course he is.
“Where?”
“Suite 41. Wild Sky Villas. Two women with him. One’s definitely not his wife. The other might not be legal. Everything’s on camera. He didn’t waste any time getting hooked up for the night.”
I smirk. “Of course not. He’s never had the discipline for delayed gratification.”
“What should I do with the footage?” he asks.
That makes my smile widen just enough to be dangerous.
“Send it to his mother.”
Arseny’s eyes flick over to Bella.
“Consider it done.” Then, with a grin that begs for a broken nose, he adds, “Enjoy your lovely evening, boss.”
He winks at her.
“Fuck off, Arseny.”
He smirks, then vanishes into the crowd like he was never there.
Bella watches him go, her face frozen. The casual mention of surveillance footage, underage girls, and revenge delivered like a business transaction—I see the exact moment it hits her. Reality crashes in, color draining from her face in real-time.
Her lips part. She sucks in a breath that doesn’t seem to reach her lungs.
“I need some air,” she whispers. And then she leaves.
Fast. Too fast to be casual. Every head in the room turns to watch my new bride flee.
Fuck.
I catch her elbow just as she reaches the terrace doors, my fingers wrapping around bare skin. She flinches—actually flinches—at my touch.
“Let me go,” she says, voice tight.
“No.”
I guide her outside with a firm hand, nodding at the guards, who immediately step aside. The terrace is empty, bathed in moonlight and shadow. Music from the reception filters through the glass, muted and distant.
As soon as we’re alone, she yanks her arm free.
“What the fuck was that?” She whirls to face me, panic written across her features. “What the fuck did I just hear?”
“Business.”
“Business?” She laughs, high and brittle. “Is that what you call ordering someone to spy on your brother ? To… to film him with underage—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Holy shit. Holy shit.”
She takes another step back, hugging herself against the evening chill. Her midnight blue gown shimmers under the garden lights, the silk clinging to her body in ways that make my hands itch to touch her. The neckline dips just low enough to make every man in that room struggle to maintain eye contact.
“I can’t do this,” she continues, voice unsteady. “The contract did not mention this.”
“This is exactly what you signed up for.”
“No.” She shakes her head again, harder this time. “I signed up to marry a businessman with questionable ethics. Not a—”
“A what?” I step closer, backing her against the stone railing. “Say it.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “A fucking mobster who casually orders surveillance on people. Who talks about exposing minors like it’s nothing.”
“I’m protecting those girls, not exploiting them.”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t try to make this sound noble. You’re using them as pawns in whatever sick game you’re playing with your brother.”
“Stepbrother,” I correct automatically.
“Whatever!” Her voice rises before she catches herself, glancing nervously at the doors. “I can’t do this. I can’t be part of this.”
I close the distance between us, one hand gripping the railing on either side of her body. Caging her in.
“You already are part of this.” My voice drops lower. “You signed the papers. You said the vows. You took my money. You’re mine now.”
Something flashes in her eyes—fear mixed with something else. Something hotter.
“I didn’t know what I was getting into,” she says, but her voice wavers.
“You knew enough.” I bring one hand up to her face, tilting her chin, forcing her to look at me. “You knew I would take care of your problems. Make your family home untouchable. Keep your siblings safe.”
“At what cost?”
“The cost was clearly outlined in our agreement.”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, the beads on her bodice catching the light with each breath. The gown hugs every curve, the slit along one leg revealing a flash of thigh when she shifts.
“I can’t breathe,” she whispers now, bringing one hand to her throat. “I need to get out of here.”
“You’re having a panic attack.”
“No shit.” She glares at me, even through her fear. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Evil.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. Even cornered, even terrified, she still has that mouth on her.
“Breathe,” I order, placing my hand flat against her lower back. “Five counts in, seven out.”
To my surprise, she listens, drawing in a shaky breath.
“Again.”
She complies, her body gradually softening against mine.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I murmur, watching her breathing slow. “You’re still my wife. Nothing you saw or heard tonight changes our arrangement.”
“It changes everything,” she whispers. “I married a stranger.”
“No.” I tighten my grip on her. “You married exactly who I am. The rest is just… semantics.”
“Semantics?” She laughs again, that same brittle sound. “God, you’re insane.”
“I’m practical.” I slide my hand up her spine, feeling each vertebra through the thin silk. “And so are you. That’s why we’ll work well together.”
She shivers but doesn’t pull away. “Work well together doing what, exactly? What am I supposed to do as the wife of a—” She stops herself again.
“Say it.”
Her jaw tightens. “As the wife of a mafia boss.”
“ Pakhan ,” I correct. “Not yet, but soon.”
“What does that even mean?” The panic is subsiding, replaced by something else. Curiosity. Wariness.
“It means you stand at my side.” I trace my finger along the line of her jaw. “You run our home. You help raise my children— for a limited time . You attend certain functions. You look beautiful and intimidating and completely devoted to me.”
“And in private?”
My lips curve. “In private, you’re still mine. Just… differently.”
Her pulse jumps under my fingers, where they rest against her throat.
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“The contract says otherwise.”
“The contract mentions ‘physical intimacy as mutually agreed upon,’” she quotes, eyes narrowing. “I’m not agreeing.”
“You will.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip, watching her pupils dilate. “You already did, that night in my bedroom. When you thought no one was watching.”
She freezes. The color rushes back to her face, spreading down her neck and across her chest.
“You can’t prove you actually saw anything,” she whispers.
“I have it on camera.”
Her eyes widen in genuine horror. “You filmed me?”
“My security system filmed an intruder.” I lean closer until my lips brush her ear. “Who broke into my home. Went through my things. Then pleasured herself on my bed while looking at my portrait.”
She makes a small, choked sound.
“I should have had you arrested.” My fingers thread through her hair, carefully avoiding the pins holding her updo in place. “Instead, I married you. I’d say that makes me rather generous.”
“Fuck you,” she breathes, but there’s no venom behind it. Just heat.
“Soon,” I promise.
Color blooms high on her cheekbones. Her mouth opens, then shuts again—like her brain short-circuited mid-comeback.
The terrace doors open behind us. Arseny steps out, face carefully blank.
“Boss. Time for the next toast.”
I don’t look away from Bella’s flushed face. “We’ll be right there.”
He nods once and retreats, closing the doors behind him.
Bella exhales, shoulders slumping slightly. “Those people in there… they all know what you are, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And now they think they know what I am, too.”
“They think you’re mine.” I straighten, offering her my arm. “They’re right.”
She stares at my extended arm for a long moment, something complicated passing across her face. Then, slowly, she places her hand in the crook of my elbow.
“Just so we’re clear,” she says, voice steadier now, “I’m doing this for Julian and Lila. Not for you.”
“Your reasons don’t matter.” I guide her back toward the doors. “The result is the same.”