Chapter 40
CLARA
The black dress Dmitri insisted I wear clings to my curves, including the swelling curve of my stomach—our secret, now forced into the open.
The black sling I’m wearing with it clashes with the white bandages still wrapping my shoulder and arm, where the bullet did little more than graze me.
However, I’m grateful it didn’t do much worse.
A dull ache remains, and any sudden movement makes the pain flare. The bruise on my cheek from Dean’s fist is now a yellow-green mark, evidence of last week’s violence. I keep waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares, a scream caught in my throat.
Dmitri stands beside me, impeccable in his dark suit, every hair on his head perfect. There’s still a deep purple shadow under his left eye, a stitched gash over his forehead, and a stiffness in his gait that is imperceptible to anyone but me.
His hand on my lower back, he guides me through the doors to the private room. The air inside is oppressive, thick with cigar smoke, expensive cologne, and absolute authority. Dimitri has called an emergency meeting of the sinister group men who rule part of the city’s underworld.
I’ve faced many frightening adversaries in courtrooms and boardrooms. Hell, the man at my side is probably the most terrifying of them all, but the men who sit in an intimidating horseshoe around a mahogany table gaze at us coldly as we step into the room, seemingly dissecting me with their eyes and making my stomach flip.
But I hold my chin high, because I won’t let them frighten or intimidate me. I refuse to shrink, not after everything that happened with Andrey Mikhailov.
Dmitri stops at the head of the table, but he doesn’t sit as I expect him to. I know nothing of the protocols of this bratva council or their convocations, but the men around the table seem bemused, as well, several of them shifting in their seats, others frowning.
Dmitri makes sure everybody sees how his hand rests, heavy and possessive, on the small of my back. It’s a gesture that says: She’s mine. The room falls silent under the intensity of those ice-blue eyes, and the shifting and rustling cease.
Every eye is on him.
“Gentlemen.” Dmitri’s voice is sharp and steady. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I assure you, what you hear today supersedes any prior engagements.”
He pauses, allowing the tension to coil tighter, then turns to me. The raw adoration in his eyes, the gratitude that I am still with him, flashes for a brief second. Then, he turns back to the assembled men, his hand curling around my waist.
“You may or may not know this woman. She is Clara Benson, an attorney on the Smirnov Corporation’s executive legal team. But today, I present her as my future wife, the pakansha of the Smirnov Bratva, and the mother of my child.”
The silence that follows is heavy and stunned, and that includes me. In fact, his announcement has stolen my breath away. This is the first time Dmitri has made his attachment to me and the pregnancy public, and the gravity of the declaration hangs over the room.
“A decade ago, Andrey Mikhailov killed my wife and unborn son. He believed the grief would destroy me, make the Smirnov Bratva vulnerable to his scheming.” Dmitri’s voice deepens with emotion and anger that will, no doubt, remain with him to the end of his days.
“Last week, he attempted the same crime. He kidnapped Clara, intending to repeat the horror and bring me down once and for all.”
His gaze scans the table, lingering on each man who had refused to side with him against the dangerous psychopath, ending on a single woman.
Natasha sits in the seat vacated by her brother’s death.
She looks small and broken, so different from the woman who sneered at me, her air of superiority diminished.
“Andrey Mikhailov is dead. I put a bullet in his head myself, ending the threat he posed to my family and to the stability of the entire organization, to all the bratva in New York.”
Dmitri leans forward, seeming to grow as he radiates raw, lethal intent. His eyes are as hard and sharp as ice.
“Let me be clear. The attempt on my family is an attempt on me. The act of kidnapping my woman, who is pregnant with my child, was an act of war against the Smirnov Bratva. I want every single man in this room, and every single man in your organization, to understand this with crystal clarity. Clara is mine. She is under the protection of the Smirnov Bratva. She is part of the Smirnov Bratva, and that means she is untouchable. The child she carries is the Smirnov heir, which means they are sacred. If anyone makes a move against either of them, touches her, speaks her name with disrespect, even looks at her the wrong way, they will die. I will extinguish their entire bloodline, their bratva will crumble, and their names will be ground into dust and forgotten by history.”
The room falls silent, not in shock but in terrified comprehension. This isn’t just a threat from Dmitri; it is an oath, a blood vow.
The discussion that follows is swift, and the other bosses agree to Dmitri’s demands, ceasing any discussion about rebellion The Mikhailov Bratva is stripped of its transport and import licenses, their territory redistributed. They are financially annihilated, reduced to dependent status.
Natasha remains silent through it all, looking entirely defeated.
It is only when her fate comes into question that she shows any emotion.
She scrambles to her feet, her eyes large and pleading.
“Dmitri, please! I didn’t know! I told you the truth.
I shouldn’t have looked the other way, but I didn’t know. I’ve always cared for you. Please!”
There is no answer to her plea; the faces of the men around the table are grim and show no mercy. I hold my breath, waiting for a response in her favor. I don’t like the woman, but I don’t want her to die. I don’t want to witness the order for her execution.
I glance up at Dmitri, knowing he believes that she should die, that retribution must be complete, that he must make his statement, warning anyone against future plots.
His gaze is on Natasha, but then he looks down at the curve of my belly.
I watch his jaw clench, fire flickering through his eyes, before the rage that was animating him draws back, replaced with a strange calm.
“Natasha Mikhailov.” Dmitri’s voice cuts through the heavy tension. “You are guilty of staying silent, and silence is complicity. You deserve death, and I would be justified in ordering it.”
His eyes find mine, searching. I meet his gaze full-on, waiting to see what he will decide.
This is his world, and I know he is capable of ordering such an execution.
By the laws of this underworld, she deserves to pay, her death meant to serve as a warning.
But he made a promise to me to be gentler, to come back from the darkness left after Lauren’s death and the decade of shadows that followed.
“But I will not repeat the sins of my enemy. Andrey acted in the belief that he could only defeat me by inflicting maximum pain. He followed the path of hate and death. I will not. I have something that Andrey did not, which he tried to take away from me. I have my future, my family. I will not start my child’s life with a vengeful execution that serves no purpose but to feed the cycle of violence. ”
I take a deep breath. There are genuine looks of surprise on the faces of the other pakhan as he turns to face them.
“The Mikhailov name is broken. The blood debt is paid. Strip her of what you will, banish her from this room or the city, but do not take her life. I demand this mercy. Ghosts of the past will not guide the Smirnov Bratva.”
There are nods around the table. The convocation is dismissed.
The ride back to the penthouse is filled with Dmitri and Pavel speaking in Russian, most likely about the convocation. I look out the window at the passing city, lit up brightly for the holidays.
My mind should be caught up on the fact that Dmitri called me his fiancée—news to me—I barely managed to keep the surprise from my face in the moment. But it’s a truth that has already settled in my bones, a knowledge that this was supposed to happen, would happen, was meant to happen.
Instead, I’m thinking about the fact that Dmitri chose justice and restraint, instead of hate and death. He chose light over darkness, our future over revenge. And he did it for me. I know that because he promised he would.
An intense wave of emotion washes over, so strong it almost makes me dizzy. This man, my dangerous, complex, dark Dmitri, is willing to change the rules of his world for the sake of the life we are building together.
The penthouse is quiet, the lights low, a fire already crackling in the fireplace when we return.
I step out of the heels I wore for the council, groaning with the instant relief, then slip out of my coat.
I can see Dmitri’s reflection in the windows as he follows me, loosening his tie as he watches.
“That,” I say, turning back to him, “was insane.”
“But effective. They took my message to heart.”
I nod my agreement as he steps closer, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him softly. “That’s an understatement. They looked terrified.”
A satisfied grin curls his lips. “Good.”
“Also, there was another interesting revelation you mentioned.” I let one of my hands wander down his chest, slipping open first one button, then another, the edge of a tattoo peeking out.
“I didn’t realize you had asked me to marry you.
In all the craziness of the last week, I must have forgotten you proposed.
Or maybe you made a rather bold executive decision, considering you never discussed the subject of the agreement with me. ”
Dmitri’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “I consulted the only authority that matters—my intuition. I cannot wait any longer.”
“Well, Mr. Smirnov,” I tease, running a finger up and down his chest. “As your legal counsel, I advise you that a verbal decree from the CEO doesn’t constitute a valid contract. There needs to be an offer, a consideration, and a mutual acceptance.”
“I agree.”
Dmitri’s voice is soft but intense. He pulls away and takes a step back. When he reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a small box, my heart flips.
The ring is not ostentatious, but it is a statement, a sapphire so dark, it looks like a drop of midnight set in platinum. It’s a promise of forever more solid than any treaty.
“For your consideration,” Dmitri says, his voice husky, stripped of the bratva boss tone from before, leaving only the man I fell in love with.
“Clara, my sun, my light, I should have done this the moment you walked into this apartment the first time. I should have done this the moment I realized my life was worthless without you. I shouldn’t have let the ghosts of my past keep me from the best thing in my life. ”
He takes my hand in his, his thumb stroking mine.
“I won’t make that mistake again. I don’t want to live a day without you by my side, and I will protect you and our child until my last breath. I will make a future worthy of you—of us. That is the man I want to be. The man you make me, and the man you deserve.”
His eyes, bright, clear, and utterly earnest, hold mine before he kneels. The bratva pakhan, the feared Dmitri Smirnov, kneels on the Persian rug in front of me.
“Clara, marry me. Be my wife. Give me the honor of being your husband, the privilege of saying I am yours, and you are mine.”
Tears burn my eyes, blurring the ring and Dmitri’s beautiful face.
“Yes,” I whisper, the single word echoing around us, as Dmitri rises and slides the ring onto my finger. Then he pulls me into his arms, kissing the top of my head, then my bruised cheek.
“Good, because I would have kept telling everyone you were my future wife until you agreed.”
I laugh while happy tears that feels like a release stream down my face. “I know, and I wouldn’t have let you forget that our needed signing.” I clutch the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, resting my head against the steady, fierce beat of his heart.
When Dmitri kisses me, it feels like forever, full of love and longing, desire and need, claiming me as much as giving himself—all of himself—to me. He leads me to the bedroom, our bedroom, and undresses me carefully, just as I do with him, aware of our various hurts and bruises.
We stand there, unclothed, staring at one another, as though neither of us can quite believe we’re here, alive, with each other. We survived.
Dmitri kneels in front of me again, his arms encircling my hips as he places his forehead on the rounding of my belly, whispering sweet Russian promises to our child.
We fall into each other, each of us lost in the other and the pleasure, our bodies and hearts tangled together, moans of passion and desire mingling.
I am here, in the penthouse suite that I accidentally walked into on a night long ago, the penthouse suite of a hotel owned by a Russian pakhan, dangerous, rich, powerful, and lethal.
It’s the penthouse suite of a man whom I fell completely in love with, who walked with me through fire, a man whom I have come to love more than anything or anyone, the father of the child growing within me.
Despite everything, he is dear to me in every way.
“I love you, Dmitri.” The words come out breathily, uttered between moans and cries. They are words that have never felt more true.
His eyes gleam like ice on a bright snowy night, and I see forever in their blue depths. “And I love you, my Clara. Forever.”
We climax together, clinging to one another’s bodies and losing ourselves in the explosive pleasure before settling into the afterglow, holding each other close, together, as we will be from this moment on.