Chapter 32 #2
"Some of you know what happened to Dmitri Volkov." He pauses long enough for the air to tighten. "You know what I did when he put his hands where they didn't belong. Keep that image. Use it if you ever forget yourselves."
Nobody moves.
"I'm the Pakhan of the Petrov family. Some of you served under my father. You respected him. You should have. He built this." Ivan lifts his glass, then lowers it again. "But he's gone. He ruled with tradition. I respect that. But I'm not him."
He looks around, meeting eyes and demanding their gaze.
"I still believe in strength. In loyalty. In results. But I also believe in choice. I chose my wife. I chose to build a life worth keeping."
His hand finds my shoulder, a subtle claim.
"Some of you think I should've married into your families. Strengthened alliances, sealed deals. You're wrong." His voice hardens. "Alliances don't require marriage. They require competence. Loyalty. Profit. And that's it.”
A few smiles flicker—men hiding relief, or fear.
Ivan raises his glass again. "My wife reminds me that empire means nothing if there's no one to share it with. She makes me want to build instead of just burn."
A breath. Softer now. "And that's worth more than any tradition."
He lifts the glass higher. "To the future."
Everyone drinks. They have to.
And as I glance around, I catch a few of the older wives watching me, not with spite, but with a hint of understanding. Assessment. Maybe even respect. Because in this world, surviving is the only language they trust, and I've survived everything
My brain starts spinning again, cycling through everything I need to learn. Everything I need to do. Appearances. Russian. Managing staff. Hosting events. There was something else I was supposed to remember and—
Ivan stands and takes my hand. "Come with me."
"What? Now?"
"Now." He’s already pulling me up.
"But the reception—people will notice—"
"Let them notice." He's leading me through tables, past guests who are too drunk or too polite to comment. Toward the exit. Through bushes.
There's a car waiting. A black limo. Windows tinted dark enough to be illegal.
"You had a getaway car at our wedding?"
"Always have an exit strategy." He opens the door and gestures. "In."
"What about the guests? The speeches? Your captains will—"
He lifts me and sets me inside the limo like I weigh nothing. "I’m tired of all that formality. If I have to shake one more hand instead of touching you, someone's getting shot."
I'm laughing despite myself. "And this is your idea of subtle? A whole limo?"
"Nobody's looking." He climbs in after me and closes the door. The sound of it shutting feels final. Private. "And even if they were, I don't care."
The interior is ridiculous. Leather everything. Mini bar stocked with top-shelf bottles. Too much space for two people.
He sits me down on the seat and kneels in front of me, reaching for my feet.
"What are you doing?"
He removes one heel, then the other. The relief is immediate. "Saving you from yourself. You've been wincing for an hour."
"I wasn't wincing—"
"You were." His hands move up my calves, massaging slightly. "You think I don't notice everything about you?"
"I thought the Pakhan cared about appearances."
"The Pakhan can do whatever the fuck he wants at his own wedding." His hands slide higher. "If he wants to leave his own reception to fuck his wife, he will. They'll survive without us."
"But—"
"You know what you looked like walking down that aisle?"
"Like a bride?"
"Like everything I never let myself want." His hands find the laces on my dress and start working them loose. "Thought I was going to lose it right there in front of everyone."
"That's not very Pakhan-like—"
"Fuck that." The laces loosen, and the dress starts to slide. "You're my wife now. That's the only title that matters."
His mouth finds mine and cuts off whatever nervous rambling I was about to start. Gentle at first, then deeper. His hand slides up my thigh, easing under the dress and finding me ready for him.
The limo starts moving.
I pull back. "Wait—someone's driving—"
"Let him." His fingers don't stop.
"But he'll know—"
"He already knows." Ivan's smile is wicked. "Now stop overthinking and let me have my wedding night."
That same finger slides into my mouth. The same one that was just—
Oh.
His other hand keeps working. His mouth moves up my neck. Kissing. Biting. Marking.
The limo cuts through the streets. I can see through the window. Sunset. Chicago passing by. His territory.
What if someone sees?
Then another thought: I’m Mrs. Petrov now. Why should I care?
I reach for his zipper. The metal is cold under my fingers. It takes me a second to get it down because my hands are shaking. When I finally free him, he's already hard. I wrap my hand around him, and he makes a sound against my neck.
Low. Almost pained.
I start stroking. Slow at first, savoring the weight of him. The heat.
His breathing gets more ragged. His fingers inside me pause like he's trying to maintain control.
I don't want him controlled.
I tighten my grip and move faster, using my thumb the way I know drives him crazy. His hips jerk forward involuntarily.
"Fuck, Lila—"
"Where are we even going?" My voice comes out breathy. Unsteady.
His mouth finds my ear. "Somewhere private. With a bed. Maybe a wall."
"Very specific."
"I'm a man of simple needs."
He positions me flat on the seat and spreads my legs wider. Then he's inside me and thinking becomes impossible.
He looks perfect like this. Still in most of his suit. Hair messed up from my hands. Eyes dark and focused entirely on me.
"Take off the jacket." I manage between gasps. "I want to see—"
He shrugs it off without pulling out and unbuttons his shirt with one hand, revealing all the tattoos covering his chest and arms. Orthodox crosses. Stars. Cyrillic text I still can't read. The ink moves with his muscles. Each thrust making the designs shift and come alive.
I need to learn what they all mean. What each one represents. What each—
He moves deeper, and the thought scatters. Everything scatters except the feeling of him filling me. Claiming me. Making me his in the back of a moving car.
This. Us. His wife now. Mrs. Petrov. Married. Being taken in a limo while Chicago passes outside unseen.
The driver knows. Has to know. But won't say anything. Because Ivan's the Pakhan. And what the Pakhan does is law.
Ivan adds fingers while still inside me. Two of them. Working in rhythm with his thrusts. It shouldn't be possible to feel this much. To take this much. But my body accepts it. Welcomes it. Tightens around everything he's giving me.
I force my eyes open and look up.
The sunroof shows the darkening sky. The first stars shine through city haze. Chicago lights compete with them, but they’re losing.
Beautiful.
Everything's beautiful right now.
Ivan's rhythm changes. Harder. Faster. His fingers curl and press where I need them. My back arches off the leather.
"That's it." His voice is rough. Strained. On the edge. "Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking city hear you."
"You—" I can't finish. Can't speak. Just feel everything building and breaking and—
He follows. Both of us wrecked. Both of us tangled together on leather that's likely ruined now.
We stay as one, breathing hard. His weight presses me into the seat. His heart hammers against mine.
"Welcome to married life," he says against my neck.
"Is it always like this?"
"With us? Probably." He pulls back to look at me. "Think you can handle it?"
"I married you, didn't I?"
"Fair point."
The limo keeps moving, taking us away from Chicago. From obligations. From everything except this.
My ring catches the last of the sunset through the tinted windows. Gold and diamond. His mother's, he'd said.
His wife's now. Mine.
Mrs. Petrov.
Forever.