Chapter 32
LILA
I step out of the car.
The church gardens stretch out in front of me—white marble paths, trimmed hedges, gold domes catching the afternoon light like they're mocking me for showing up. It's a place you scroll past in photos and think Wow, beautiful. Not somewhere you ever expect to walk into wearing a wedding dress.
Except here I am. Walking into it, getting married.
My stomach does that same rollercoaster drop it's been doing all morning. Hell, all week. Ever since Ivan said the date as if it were already carved in stone.
Three weeks. That's all it took. Three weeks from proposal to wedding day.
I'd heard Bratva weddings were fast—tradition, superstition, whatever. Something about not giving your enemies time to plan. I nodded when he told me, pretending to understand. But knowing it in theory and standing here now, in actual silk and lace, are two very different things.
The dress is black. Not symbolic black. Literal, unapologetic, funeral black. Ivan's idea, of course. His way of saying she's not like the rest—she's mine, and you can all choke on it.
It's gorgeous, honestly. Heavy and soft at once. I smooth the fabric like that's going to calm me down, but my hands won't stop shaking.
I tell myself it's excitement. Nerves. Maybe both. But there's this tiny voice in the back of my head whispering that it's not that at all—more like holy shit, what am I doing?
And yeah. Fair question. This is insane.
The whole thing.
Meeting Ivan at the diner feels like years ago instead of months. Everything that happened after—the penthouse, Dmitri, the yacht, the burning harbor.
My stomach sinks.
Don't think about Dmitri. He's gone. Ash. Irrelevant.
Focus on now. On this moment. On the fact that I'm about to walk into that church and—
"So, how does this work?"
Pyotr's voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn. He's standing there looking uncomfortable in his suit. It fits him properly for once, making him look less like a bodyguard and more like a normal person attending a wedding.
Right. Pyotr's walking me down the aisle.
I spent too much time overthinking that decision. The whole father-gives-away-daughter tradition when I don't have a father. Haven't had one in years. Mom's been gone even longer. No family left.
Ivan asked who I wanted. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't think of anyone.
Then Pyotr offered. Simple. No big speech. Just "I'll do it if you want."
Weird how he's become like a friend. Not long ago, he was the scary guard who wouldn't talk to me. Who stood outside my door. Who ate my food in front of me out of spite and made me shitty sandwiches.
Now he's here. In a suit. About to walk me down the aisle for my wedding to his boss.
Life is fucking weird.
"You sure about this?"
"Never been more sure."
"He'll never let you go. You know this?"
I look at Pyotr. His pale eyes are serious. Not joking. Not testing. He’s stating a fact.
"Good. I'd kill him if he tried."
He laughs. The sound is so unexpected that I almost jump. "Da. I believe you would."
I look past him at the church. The doors are open. I can see inside—rows of people, candles, gold everywhere. So much gold.
"There are a lot of people here."
"After the Volkov situation, many came back. Showing loyalty. Showing they choose correct side." He adjusts his tie, uncomfortable. "Also, refusing Pakhan's wedding invitation after he burned hundred ships is bad idea."
The music changes to a Russian piece I don't recognize. Slow. Formal. That's my cue, apparently.
My heart hammers in my chest.
Pyotr offers his arm. I take it. The bouquet—white roses because Ivan insisted—shakes slightly in my other hand.
We start walking.
The aisle is long. Longer than it looked from the outside. Every eye turns toward me as we enter. Old men in tailored suits, their wives covered in diamonds and judgment. The younger ones—soldiers, enforcers—watch like they're evaluating a weapon, not a bride.
I can feel it. The weight of who the hell is she pressing against my skin.
I keep my chin up, but I don't look at them.
I can't. If I meet a single stare, I'll start imagining what they're thinking—how I don't belong here, how I'll never fit in this world. That's how the spiral starts.
So I look at Ivan instead.
He's at the altar. Black suit, crisp lines, but his hair has that bit of chaos I love. He's standing perfectly still, hands clasped, jaw set like he's holding the universe together by sheer will.
And then there are his eyes.
Locked on me.
Completely.
Everyone else might as well vanish.
There's a look in them I didn't expect. Fear. Like he's not sure this is real until I reach him. Like he's afraid I'll dissolve mid-aisle, and he'll wake up back in the wreckage.
Those blue eyes don't blink. Don't even flinch. They track me, step by step, pulling me in.
For a second, the noise in my head goes quiet. It's only him and that look.
Step after step, past the whispers, past the scrutiny, past the people wondering what spell I cast on their Pakhan.
Let them wonder.
Because right now, none of them matter. Not their money, not their rules, not their world.
Just Ivan.
Just this.
Just us.
When I finally reach the altar, Pyotr takes my hand and places it in Ivan's.
The touch is electric—sharp and grounding all at once. His palm is warm, steady, like he's silently telling me you made it.
His thumb drags over my knuckles once. Twice.
Checking to see if I'm real, or maybe reminding himself he is.
Pyotr says something in Russian—formal, rhythmic. Ivan answers, low and certain. They share the smallest smile, a private moment I’m not a part of yet.
Then Pyotr steps back, and Ivan pulls me closer. Not too close—we're in a church after all. But close enough that I feel his warmth and see the gold flecks in his eyes that only appear in certain light.
The ceremony begins.
The priest's voice is deep. Resonant. Echoing off marble and gold. Speaking Russian.
Of course, it's in Russian. This is an Orthodox church. This is a Bratva wedding. Everything is in Russian.
I've been taking lessons. Ivan insisted. Said I needed to understand my new world. My new family. My new life.
But my Russian is terrible. I catch maybe one word in ten on a good day. Today's not a good day. My brain is too scattered. Too overwhelmed.
But I hear some words. The important ones.
Forever. Unity. Together. Death before separation.
The priest continues. Ivan's thumb keeps tracing circles on my hand. Grounding me. Reminding me he's here. That this is real.
I try to focus. Try to understand. Catch phrases here and there. God. Commitment. Something about—
The priest asks a question in a different tone. I don't understand the words, but I know what it means. There’s only one question you ask the audience at a wedding.
Does anyone object?
My heart stops. This is the moment. The one from the movies. Where everything goes wrong. Where someone stands up and—
Ivan's hand moves. A subtle shift toward his hip, where his gun is.
Only in a Bratva wedding would the groom be armed at the altar.
I glance at the crowd. All those faces. All those people who wanted Ivan to marry someone else. Someone appropriate. Someone from their families.
Ivan whispers something. Russian. Just for me.
I don't hear all of it, but I catch the important part. "Look at me."
I meet his eyes.
Nobody speaks. The church stays silent.
Then the priest smiles and switches to English, probably for my benefit. "You may now kiss the bride."
Ivan doesn't do a gentle church kiss. Not the sweet, chaste thing you're supposed to do at the altar. He cups my face with both hands and pulls me against him. He kisses me deeply. Possessively. His tongue invades my mouth. His body presses to mine. Completely inappropriate for this setting.
He’s making a statement, ensuring everyone watching knows what I am to him.
Some gasp. Scandalized probably. But I don't care.
When he pulls back, his lips brush my ear.
"Mine,” he says, delivered in Russian. A word I know well now. "Finally, officially, forever mine."
"Yours," I try to say it in Russian, but fumble the pronunciation, so I switch to English. "Now let's get through this reception so you can prove it."
The reception is… too much.
Private garden. More gold. More ornate everything. Tables covered in food I don't recognize. Champagne flowing. String quartet playing. Everything lavish and formal and intimidating.
And people. So many people.
I sit beside Ivan at the head table, trying to remember the names and faces from the stack of photos he made me study. Morozov? Ivanov? Which one had the daughter who wanted him? Or was that the niece?
And are the Volkovs even here? Or are they still hiding after Dmitri?
My chest tightens. My brain starts building scenarios like a doomsday machine—who hates me, who's plotting, how fast this could all fall apart.
"Stop."
Ivan's voice cuts through the noise. Firm. But just for me.
His hand closes around mine under the tablecloth, steady and warm. "You're spiraling again."
I swallow. "I'm fine."
He gives me that look—the one that says Don't lie to me. "You're thinking too much." He leans in, mouth close enough that I feel the words. "Don't. I married you for a reason."
"These people—"
"Don't matter." His thumb strokes my wrist. "Look at me."
I do.
The rest of the room blurs out. His eyes are calm. Certain. Like he already decided the world will bend around that certainty.
"You belong here because I say you do," he says. "That's the only rule that matters."
He hands me a crystal flute—champagne fizzing like gold. Then he stands. The knife hits glass. The sharp ring cuts through conversation, and the garden goes still.
"I want to make something very clear," he says. His voice fills the space without effort. "Anyone who disrespects my wife answers to me, and I don't believe in warnings."
Silence. The kind that hums.