Chapter 20
Cecilia
Imade a mistake.
When Ms. Donatello came to the penthouse this morning to find Niko delivering my new dress, I could tell I screwed up.
I should have never let Mikhail take me to that bridal store yesterday. I should have worn the other dress, the one my mentor carefully selected out of dozens, even if I hated it. Because now, Ms. Donatello barely even looks at me as she helps coordinate the wedding logistics from the apartment.
“Are you okay?” Victoria asks. Somehow, out of the two of them, she seems to be the only one who still pays attention to my fickle emotions. Even if I rejected her friendship. Even if I’ve never even thanked her for all her help.
“I don’t know,” I say from my seat in front of a mirror, smoothing the dress over my thighs. “I’m just confused, I guess.”
The wedding was supposed to be tomorrow. When Mikhail told me the plans had changed, he skipped over the details and disappeared once again. Classic him.
Victoria brings her hand over to mine, squeezing it lightly.
“It’s going to be alright. When I got married to Wolf, I didn’t have anyone in my corner.
It was an arranged marriage, like yours, and he was such an asshole.
” She huffs out a bittersweet laugh. “If it’s any consolation, that will not happen to you.
Because you’ve got me. I’m in your corner, even if you’re not ready to accept me just yet—or ever.
I’ll do my damndest to make sure Mikhail doesn’t mistreat you. ”
I smile. “Thank you. When this is all over, I think…if you aren’t too busy, I’d like for us to talk and—”
“We’ll talk. Of course we will.” She beams. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a help with organizing this wedding. It didn’t feel right supporting it, given that you didn’t have much choice in the matter. But in the end, it’s still happening, so I might as well have been there for you…”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you weren’t, actually. I’d rather we bond over something we want to do together. Besides, Mikhail kind of took care of everything.”
“Not everything,” Ms. Donatello bickers as she hangs up a call. “The rings. He forgot the rings! Not to mention the odd seating arrangement at the venue. And…the impromptu dress change.”
I tense up at the last sentence. I can see the dangerous signs of my mentor’s rage flickering in those sharp, amber eyes.
I can see it, and yet, in between chastising myself for what I did, a tendril of anger also begins to bloom somewhere deep.
Why can’t she give me this small happiness?
It’s just a dress. A dress I happen to like—one Mikhail seemed to like as well.
Heat coils around my body, squeezing tight at the memory.
“Hair and makeup. Quickly," Ms. Donatello orders in Italian, clapping her hands in urgency. Two stylists take their posts. “I want her hair up in a bun. Neat and perfect,” she adds.
Immediately, my hair is pulled back from behind as a comb goes through it, rough and fast. My pulse picks up, and I find myself twisting to face the stylist.
“Wait,” I say, my voice clear. Stable.
The room falls silent, Ms. Donatello’s gaze sharpening further.
I swallow, my eyes slipping from person to person until it dawns on me that, somehow, I’ve seized control of the conversation. Me. And even though my heart pounds aggressively against my ribcage, I can’t ignore the blinking kernel of power—of courage—that rises from somewhere deep inside me.
So, I continue.
“My hair will be down. And I want a pearl necklace to go with the dress.”
I don’t frame it as a question or keep my voice soft. I simply state what I need, somehow being okay with dealing with the consequences.
Except, there aren’t any, none other than Ms. Donatello continuing to be mad at me. The stylist nods, complying with my request. Meanwhile, Victoria saunters over to a jewelry box, retrieving a necklace.
“I agree. Your hair is beautiful—why hide it?” she says, her nude manicure gleaming in the sunlight as she places the object on the makeup table in front of me.
I smile to myself, refusing to look to my right to see Ms. Donatello has walked away.
I’ll deal with that consequence later, when I’m not marrying one of the most notorious criminals in the country.
An hour later, my shoulders feel a little lighter as I analyze myself in the mirror. My hair falls gracefully along my face in wide, natural curls, the pearl necklace heavy on my skin. My makeup complements the look with soft shades that emphasize my features. I’m surprised at how much I love it.
And it’s not only because these things make me feel beautiful, but because I chose them.
Even if Mikhail suggested certain parts, he never forced them on me.
It was still me who made the call. For once, I’m not afraid to state my needs, and people listen, just like he said they would. Maybe…I could get used to it.
As Niko and a few guards I’ve seen in passing at the estate drive us to church, my stomach clenches with nerves.
My father, Cesare, people I’ve known all my life, will be there.
Mikhail and I will get married for real, and I will officially become Cecilia Rykov.
I still don’t know what that means for me.
All I know is I’ve had to put my dreams on hold indefinitely, and marrying Mikhail is the cruelest reminder.
“Ready?” Victoria asks as we exit the car.
I nod, but I don’t know that I am. Still, I walk into the church on my own two feet, flowers in my hands as the others scatter.
The scent of wood, earth, and stone envelops me like a comforting hug.
I used to love going to church with my mother before she died.
Maybe she’s here too, somewhere, watching me, walking me down the aisle.
The thought carries me forward as my father meets my gaze at the entrance, welcoming me with a tight smile.
I don’t return it.
“You’re beautiful,” he mutters in Italian. “Look at you.”
He offers me his elbow, and I take it, letting him guide me down the aisle.
Although I try not to look at the people around me, I sneak in a few subtle glances.
Bratva criminals on the left. Cosa Nostra on the right.
I don’t see a single happy or encouraging face—not even Cesare’s or Ms. Donatello’s.
In fact, I’m pretty sure this is the first time they’ve all been in the same room without the whole thing turning into a bloodbath.
Before I let that thought scare me too much, I focus on my father stopping close to the chancel. Like the good daughter he raised me to be, I lean in to kiss his cheeks, left and right. Then, I grip his arm, making sure he lingers.
“I will never forgive you,” I tell him quietly with a smile on my face. “And neither would she.”
For a moment, his face doesn’t reveal anything. Then, his nostrils flare, and he turns to Mikhail like nothing happened. “You take care of her. Protect her with your life,” he says.
When will he stop pretending he gives a damn?
My father leaves to sit with the others, and I finally, finally raise my gaze to the people in front of me.
The Pakhan—Wolfgang Rykov—looks just as dangerous as he did when I first met him.
He’s tall, broad, and stoic, with tattoos similar to Mikhail’s.
He can’t be much older than him. The energy he emanates is twice as monstrous as that of the men posted around him—Niko and Rodion.
Only Victoria, who is by his side, makes him look a little bit human.
Then, there’s the old priest, in his white and gold garments.
And of course, my menacing, intoxicatingly handsome future husband. Black tux. Subtly smiling as he welcomes me by his side, greedy to claim me in front of everyone.
The frisson of electricity that always binds us buzzes around me, making my skin prickle and my breathing stutter. I’m pulled in to him by an invisible force, his familiar scent immediately seizing me like a dark spell.
And that spell…it’s spawning things in my mind, dangerous questions I shouldn’t ask but can’t stop from forming. Would it be so bad if I married him? Would he ever see me as more than just the product of a successful trade?
His eyes rake across my body from top to bottom, his eyes hooded. It’s the same look he gave me in that bridal store, only this time, it openly consumes him. And he swallows—swallows—before that lush mouth utters the words I’ve longed to hear.
“Exquisite,” he murmurs, his voice a smokey, whiskey-warm sound that feels like gentle fingers brushing down my spine.
My lips part, and I watch him watch me through the entire liturgy reading, the priest’s voice a mere buzz in the background. I’m safe, I realize out of nowhere. Even in a room full of criminals, Mikhail’s presence strengthens me like nothing else.
Does he notice too? My slowing pulse, my breathing pattern returning to normal?
“I do,” Mikhail says, vowing himself over to me without blinking.
“And do you, Cecilia, take Mikhail to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?”
I don’t think about it—there would be no point. We’re as good as married already. All I can hope for is that one day, the lie won’t come back to bite me.
“I do.”
The ring box is brought out, and Mikhail takes out the one he has for me.
Without breaking eye contact, I offer him my hand, and he takes it—dark ink and scars entwining with my unblemished skin.
He doesn’t squeeze or jerk me, but his touch is firm, a hint of the possessive power that begins to seep out of him.
And then—
Cold, luscious metal slides around my finger.
I peer down, sucking in a breath when the deep blue of a marquise-shaped diamond flickers, coiling around a platinum band. Blue. Like the depths of the ocean. Like my home.