8. Nik
This church looks like a flower garden vomited all over it. It’s sickening, and I want this wedding done and over with.
I’m in one of the back rooms with Igor and Dimitry, doing the last of my cufflinks, my mind reeling over the events of today and it isn’t even noon yet.
My father called me early this morning from Russia. After Vladimir Morozov died of a heart attack, he went back there, claiming it was time for retirement. Not that one can retire from the Bratva, but Luka was generous enough to let him go. I hadn’t told him I’m getting married, and since that day is today, I let the words tumble out of my mouth.
“What the hell, Nikolai!” he yelled over the phone.
“It was last minute …” I answered. Honestly, I’m surprised the news hadn’t reached him yet. Most of the Bratva know and are attending today. Luka made it mandatory.
“Who is it?”
“The eldest daughter of the new underboss of the Cosa Nostra.”
I flinched when his voice went loud, and Russian words deafened my ears. I had to pull the phone farther away for each curse word he flung at me. Practically went through them all.
“Nyet. I cannot allow this. I need to call Luka. You will not be marrying Italian scum.”
Indignation flared within me. I don’t even know her, but I doubt she deserves to be labeled as scum.
“I do what my pakhan needs. I do what the Bratva needs. If anyone should understand, it would be you,” I barked back.
That seemed to shut him up.
Thinking about it now, I wonder if he was right. Who the hell treats this kind of arrangement like an actual wedding? My fists tighten at my sides—I will not be baited into thinking this is anything but a contract.
Dimitry opens the door and Luka enters, leaning in to say something to him before approaching me, a somber expression on his face. Over his shoulder, I watch Dimitry leave the room.
“What, no vodka?” I jest, trying to ease the pain on his face. I hate it when he’s like this. Even more so when it involves me. His mouth contorts into a semi-smile. That will have to do.
“Nyet, no vodka. I do have a ring, though.”
I scowl at the words.
“It’s not yours. It’s for her.”
He takes out a large, gaudy looking ring. A sizable orange gemstone sits in an extravagantly designed gold setting. It’s ugly.
“Apparently, the ring is a family heirloom. Don’t lose it,” Luka says, holding it out to me.
“That might not be such a bad thing.”
I take the ring and tuck it into my pocket, annoyed. I don’t know if there will be a ring for me, but even if there is, I doubt I’ll be putting it on.
I take a few steps across the room, then turn and pace back. The movement does nothing to calm my nerves, but I continue anyway, using it as a distraction.
“How is security? I feel odd not having a hand in this, Luka.” Security is what I live and breathe. It’s how I contribute to the Bratva. Knowing Igor is handling it all today is eroding my peace.
“It’s all set, Nik. Both organizations are allowed ten low-level guards on their respective sides of the sanctuary, and the reception is taking place at a neutral country club. Same terms apply.” Luka sounds calm and collected, but I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens.
“Tell Igor to have my car at the reception. I’m going home as soon as my obligations are over.” I mumble my words and Luka gives me a nod, making his way to the door.
He pauses before leaving. “Last chance, Nikolai. You know I’d go to war with the Cosa Nostra if you decided you wanted out of this.”
He regards me openly, a definite warning laced in his tone. Luka would. He would put an end to this immediately if I said the word. But that’s exactly why I’m doing this. Because it isn’t just about my loyalty to the Bratva—it’s Luka’s loyalty to me.
“I know, brother.” I sigh. “We move forward.”
It isn’t long after Luka leaves that the wedding planner is ushering me out to the altar. I snort at the irony as I take in the expansive church infiltrated by money and power.
I let my gaze wander to the Cosa Nostra side of the aisle. A middle-aged woman and a young girl sit in the front pew. Both have dark hair and olive-toned skin. The woman’s eyes are scanning my body, and I grimace at her wicked smirk. The teenager next to her is on her phone.
What a joke this charade is.
Whispers on the Italian’s side float to the front where I’ve been instructed to stand.
“Look how handsome he is.”
“Did you see the pakhan and his new fiancée?”
“I can’t believe we’re aligning with these Russian assholes.”
I tune out the rest. On the Bratva side, most faces are solemn and pitying. Kate lifts her arm a fraction to offer me a quick wave. I give her a wink, and the whispers on the other side get louder.
Idiots.
The priest comes to stand next to me and extends his hand. We shake, and he opens a book in front of him. My nerves jump into my stomach, flipping and dipping to the point where I may lose my breakfast. This shit is getting real. I need it to be over with.
An organ starts to play, and the guests rise. The doors at the end of the aisle open, and my eyes snap to the woman about to become my?—
Ah, hell.
Rich tawny eyes meet mine, and I forget to breathe. She quickly glances around the sanctuary before her gaze finds the floor. Thick brown hair spills around her olive tan shoulders, and lush, full lips open and close on a steady rhythm—she’s taking small, deep breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth. With each exhalation, her dainty button nose flares.
My eyes skirt down to her dress and—nyet. I fight the urge to bury my face in my hands. A fitted bodice with a plunging neckline flares into flowing lace, the see-through fabric giving me a glimpse of toned legs extending from curvy hips. Luna Buscetta is beautiful, and I’m pissed.
I glance at Luka and Kate in the front row. Kate is beaming at me with wide eyes, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. While Luka—well, he just grimaces as my eyes plead with him.
Her steps are slow, and I’m irritated I can’t see her better. The urge to go take her hand and escort her down the aisle myself assaults me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I finally notice Salvatore Buscetta next to her, a smug smile on his face, and I want to punch my father-in-law already. Luna clutches his forearm, and I notice her whole hand is shaking. Her eyes are still trained on the ground when they stop before the altar, and I miss everything the priest is saying while I will her face to lift.
Heart racing, I call on all my training to steel my face and glower at Salvatore as he hands Luna over like property to be bartered. I reach out, grabbing the delicate hand Buscetta is extending for his daughter.
A shock of electricity invades my body. The sudden rush of adrenaline accelerates my heartbeat, and I jolt, barely keeping hold of her hand, which is cold as ice and still quivering.
As soon as she’s across from me, she drops my hand, and wipes her palm on the front of her dress. Slowly, her eyes rove up my body, going wider as they climb. When she reaches my face, she blinks, a small flush creeping up her neck.
The priest says some more words, and the whoosh of people sitting back down yanks Luna’s attention from me. She looks toward her family, tears welling, and I don’t miss the woman, who I assume is her mother, raising her chin and shaking her head. Disgust seems to roll down Mrs. Buscetta”s nose.
What kind of mother doesn’t offer her daughter a reassuring smile at a time like this?
We repeat some one-line vows and exchange rings. Her family’s ring sits ugly and huge on her left hand and when she peers up at me to put my ring on, I snatch it out of her fingers and put it on myself.
It’s a black band, sleek and simple. If this were a real wedding, I would be proud to wear something like this. But it’s not. And I won’t be wearing it after today.
“By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
The priest’s declaration interrupts my thoughts, and I freeze. The church is quiet. There is no celebration. The only smiles in the sanctuary sit on Salvatore and his wife’s faces.
I look down at Luna. Her eyes are darting around. I don’t kiss her. I won’t.
The priest sighs and starts to raise his arms in the air to dismiss us.
Movement catches me off guard. Luna steps into my space, a waft of jasmine and a fresh citrusy scent distracting me. She lifts onto her toes and places a small peck on my cheek. Not bothering to look at me, she steps back, taking her captivating scent with her.
The priest smirks at me like I got bested. I shrug.
Luna’s cheeks are bright red—I’ve probably embarrassed her.
We both turn to the silently seated guests. I offer my arm, but when my eyes find hers, I notice fire raging in her irises. She snaps her head to the side, taking her compelling gaze away. I almost growl.
Her small hand hooks onto my arm so lightly I can barely feel her.
Walking out of the room, I’m the most powerless I’ve been in my whole life.