Chapter Twenty-Six
Aleksei
Sofia’s shrill voice pierces through my skull as she screeches down the phone line, rattling on about place settings and flower arrangements.
“Are you even listening?” she snaps. “This is our wedding, Aleksei. The least you could do is pretend to care.”
I glare at the custom-made tux that’s hanging in my dressing room. Fucking monkey suit. I should probably start dressing. I glance at my watch. One hour until I face the preacher. Might as well be an executioner for the way I’m feeling.
“The flowers need to match the table settings, but this revolting hotel doesn’t have anything in porcelain white,” she’s still babbling.
“Not that anyone will notice. The food will be inedible. Do you know that they couldn’t bring in salmon from the Faroe Islands?
What kind of five-star hotel can’t get that right? ”
“I don’t care, Sofia.” The words come out clipped, each syllable sharp enough to cut. “Shouldn’t you be dressing, or something?”
“I’m waiting for the make-up artist to touch up my tan lines.” She huffs a breath. “Whatever made you think a week in the Bahamas was a good idea?”
She’s right. I didn’t. But since a year in Siberia was out of the question…
“I’m really not interested,” I mutter, pouring myself another vodka. If I have to do this, I may as well be drunk.
Sofia huffs a breath. “But darling , these decisions affect both of us. As husband and wife—”
“This is business.” I drain my glass and set it down. “Nothing more.”
She snorts. “How dare you? After everything my father—”
“Your father’s support comes with contracts and terms.” I drain my glass and pour another. “Don’t pretend this is about anything more.”
“You’re being cruel.” Her voice cracks but I’m not buying it. It’s calculated, like everything else about her.
“I’m being honest,” I bite out. “Plan whatever spectacle you want. Just leave me out of it.”
“The Bratva expects—”
“I know what they expect.” I start unbuttoning my shirt. May as well get this over with. “The wedding will happen. That’s all that matters.”
I ignore her squawks and end the call, heading to the dressing room to get into my tux.
Fuck, if only Diana knew how murderous I’m feeling right now.
Actually, she does. And she doesn’t give a fuck.
I take my time dressing, willing my temper to settle a little. It isn’t easy; fucking Sofia has played on my last nerve. Luckily the staff have the good sense to stay out of my way when I stalk through the manor and get into the car that’s waiting to take me to the ceremony.
I take my place at the front of the church, adjusting my cuffs for the hundredth time. The vodka isn’t helping like it should. My phone buzzes in my pocket — probably Sofia with another crisis about the flowers or table settings.
I pull it out, ready to silence the damn thing, when an unknown number catches my eye. The message preview makes my blood run cold:
“Aleksei, this is Stella. Nico’s sister. I need to tell you something important.”
I pause. Stella. The name immediately conjures up sultry eyes and a body made for sin. I open the message to read the rest of it.
“I’m pregnant.”
My fingers go numb. The phone nearly slips from my grip as I stare at those two words. The church spins around me. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the murmur of gathered Bratva families. I grip the back of the nearest pew, steadying myself.
Pregnant. The word echoes through my mind like a gunshot.
Another message appears: “I understand if you don’t want to be involved. But I thought you should know.”
My jaw clenches. The thought of my child growing up without a father… Memories of Rodion’s abuse flash through my mind.
I feel my nostrils flare as I pull in a breath and force myself to stand tall.
Pregnant.
Bozhe moy!
The wedding march starts playing. Sofia will be walking down that aisle any second. The Novikov alliance, the Bratva’s expectations, everything I’ve built — it all hangs on the next few minutes.
But Stella… pregnant with my child…
I stare at the phone again, her messages burning into my retinas. The organ music swells. Guests rise to their feet. My mind is racing as I try to process this.
“Aleksei!” My sister’s voice snaps my head up. “What’s going on?” She’s frowning at me.
I give a sharp shake of my head in response. What the fuck do I say to her right now?
The heavy church doors swing open. Sofia appears in a cloud of white, her father’s arm linked with hers. The guests collectively sigh at the sight. I barely register any of it.
Pregnant. The word keeps hammering through my skull with each step Sofia takes down the aisle. Stella’s carrying my child. My hands clench at my sides as memories of Bobik’s birth crash over me. The joy. The terror. The rage when I learned what that drunk doctor had done.
Sofia floats closer, her smile radiant behind her veil. I force my face to remain expressionless even as my mind spins with possibilities. Another child. One that could have a normal life, play sports, run free. Be a companion to Bobik. Unless…
My throat tightens. Unless something goes wrong again. The thought of another child suffering like my boy…
The organ music seems to fade as Sofia reaches the altar. Her father places her hand in mine — her fingers are ice cold. She leans close, her expensive perfume choking me.
“What’s wrong, darling?” she whispers.
I stare straight ahead, my jaw locked. The priest begins speaking, but his words wash over me like static. All I can think about is Stella, alone somewhere with my child growing inside her. The thought of her facing this without me…
Sofia squeezes my hand, trying to get my attention. I don’t squeeze back.
My mind races with possibilities. I’m thinking about a child who I could take better care of this time. I’d ensure the best medical care from the start — specialists, private hospitals, constant monitoring. No drunk doctor would ever touch Stella or our baby.
Stella. The image of her carrying my child leaves my head spinning. Her green eyes, that gentle smile. The way she’d looked at me that night, no fear or calculation in her gaze. Just pure desire. And now…
I could move her into the manor. Keep her safe, protected. Watch her belly grow round with my child. The thought stirs something primal in my chest.
A real heir. One born from passion rather than arrangement. One who could bridge the gap between my worlds — legitimate enough for the Bratva through marriage, yet free from the toxic Novikov influence.
“Dearly beloved…”
The priest’s droning voice breaks through my planning. Sofia’s hand feels like a shackle in mine. Her fingers squeeze again, more insistent this time.
I stare at the ancient crucifix hanging above the altar, its golden surface catching the light. In my mind’s eye, I see Stella in that same golden glow, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. Our child. My chance at something real.
“We are gathered here today…”
The words echo through the church, each syllable like another nail in my coffin. Unless…
“Do you, Sofia Novikova take this man, Aleksei Tarasov, to be your lawful wedded husband?”
I watch Sofia’s painted lips curve into a triumphant smile as she delivers her “I do” with practiced perfection. Her voice rings clear through the church, dripping with satisfaction. The diamond on her finger catches the light, throwing sparkles across her white gown.
The priest turns to me, his weathered face expectant. “And do you, Aleksei Tarasov, take Sofia Novikova to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
My phone burns in my pocket where I’ve tucked it away. Two words flash through my mind: I’m pregnant.
Sofia’s fingers tighten around mine, her manicured nails digging into my skin. The pressure feels like handcuffs clicking shut.
I look past the priest to the gathered crowd. Bratva families fill the pews, their expectations heavy in the air. Diana stands in the front row, her face carefully impassive. She knows me too well — she can sense something’s wrong.
The silence stretches. Sofia’s grip becomes tighter.
“Aleksei?” the priest prompts, his brow furrowing.
I think of Bobik, hidden away in the manor’s left wing. Of all my promises to protect him, to give him a better life than I had. Of this new child, already growing in Stella’s womb. A chance to do things right from the start.
Sofia leans closer, her voice a venomous whisper. “Say it, darling. Now.”
I meet her cold gray eyes. All pretense of warmth has vanished from them.
The priest clears his throat. “Shall we continue?”
I stare at his weathered face, letting the silence stretch. The weight of every eye in this church presses against my skin. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what this moment means.
“No.”
The word rings through the church like a gunshot. Sofia’s fingers go slack in shock. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd.
“What did you say?” Sofia’s voice trembles.
I turn to face her fully, observing the color drain from her face. “I said no.”
Murmurs break out among the guests. The priest fumbles with his bible, clearly unprepared for this deviation from script. Diana takes a half-step forward but stops when I raise my hand slightly.
“You can’t do this.” Sofia’s perfect mask cracks. Her voice rises, shrill and desperate. “The alliance—”
“Is terminated.” The words taste like freedom on my tongue. “Along with any other arrangements between our families.”
The church erupts in chaos. Novikov’s men surge to their feet. My own security responds instantly, hands moving to concealed weapons. But I keep my eyes locked on Sofia, savoring the moment her victory crumbles.
“You’ll regret this,” she hisses, backing away from me. Her designer dress rustles against the church floor. “My father will—”
“Your father will do nothing.” My voice carries over the growing commotion. “Unless he wants certain documents about his business practices reaching the FSB.”
Sofia’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Tears smear her perfect makeup. Good. Let everyone see her true face.
I straighten my tie and turn to address the stunned congregation. “The wedding is canceled. Please enjoy the reception without us.”
I stand my ground while scanning the increasingly agitated crowd. Novikov’s men are pushing forward, their faces twisted with rage. My security team forms a barrier, weapons at the ready.
“ Blyad ,” Diana mutters beside me. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
I adjust my cuffs, deliberately casual. “Would it have changed anything?”
“No, but I could have brought popcorn.” She eyes Sofia’s crumpling form.
The church fills with shouting — accusations, threats, demands for explanation.
I ignore them all. Let them rage. The Bratva’s expectations, the carefully arranged alliances, the years of political maneuvering — none of it matters anymore.
My phone burns in my pocket, those two words from Stella giving me strength.
I’m pregnant.
Sergei Novikov storms up the aisle, his face purple with fury. “ Ty che, blyad? You dare humiliate my daughter like this?”
“Your daughter humiliates herself.” I meet his glare steadily. “The arrangement is over.”
“The consequences—”
“Are mine to deal with.” I cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Unless you’d prefer we discuss your Iranian connections? I’m sure the Americans would be very interested.”
He pales, taking an involuntary step back. Smart man. The folder of evidence I’ve collected over the years would bury his entire operation.
Sofia’s theatrical sobs echo through the church as her bridesmaids cluster around her. The sound grates on my nerves, but I keep my face impassive. This display is exactly why I could never bind myself to her — there’s not an authentic bone in her body.
My security chief appears at my shoulder. “Car’s ready, Boss.”
I nod, already moving toward the side exit. Diana falls into step beside me. Behind us, the chaos continues to unfold — exactly as I knew it would.
But for the first time in years, I feel truly free.