Chapter 18
DIMITRI
Istand at the window of my study, watching the darkness over the city. My city. The one I've bled for, killed for, built an empire in. Behind me, I hear Alina moving around the bedroom, getting ready. My bride.
Tonight changes everything.
The door opens, and I turn to find her standing in the doorway. She's wearing the simple black dress from earlier, her damp hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Even exhausted and traumatized, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"I need to talk to you," she says, her voice steady despite the shadows under her eyes.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk, but she remains standing. Good. She's not backing down, not letting me intimidate her with power plays and positioning. I've always respected strength, and Alina has it in spades.
"I'll marry you," she says, and my chest tightens with relief I don't want to examine too closely. "But I have a condition."
Of course she does. I lean against the desk, crossing my arms. "Name it."
"Katya." Her voice quavers slightly on her sister's name. "I want her here. Away from my father, away from that house. I want her protected."
Family loyalty is something I understand, even if Viktor Popov clearly doesn't.
"Done," I say without hesitation. "I'll send men to collect her within the hour."
Alina's eyes widen slightly, as if she expected me to argue or negotiate. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." I move closer, studying her face. "Your sister is sixteen, innocent in all of this. She deserves protection. And if having her here makes you feel safer, makes this transition easier, then it's a small price to pay."
She swallows hard, and I see tears gathering in her green eyes. "Thank you."
I reach out and brush a strand of damp hair from her face, letting my fingers linger on her cheek. "What about your mother? Do you want her brought here as well?"
The change in Alina's expression is immediate and telling. Her jaw tightens, her eyes go cold. "No."
"You're certain?"
"My mother made her choice a long time ago.
" Alina's voice is bitter. "She chose Viktor over us, over her own daughters.
Every time. All those tears, all that dramatic weeping, it's just performance.
She cares about him, about her position, about her comfortable life. She doesn't care about Katya or me."
I hear the pain underneath the anger, the wound that never quite healed.
I know something about disappointing parents, about family that fails you when you need them most. My own father was a drunk who beat my mother until I was big enough to stop him.
Family isn't always blood. Sometimes, it's the people you choose.
"Then it's just Katya," I confirm. "I'll have Alexei handle it personally. He'll bring her here safely."
Alina nods, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "When do we do this? The wedding?"
I check my watch. It's nearly ten p.m. "As soon as the priest arrives. I've already made the call."
"That fast?"
"The longer we wait, the more time your father has to make another move."
She looks up at me, and I see the question in her eyes. The one she's too smart to ask out loud. What happens after? What kind of marriage will this be?
I don't have a good answer. I've never been married, never wanted to be. Marriage in the Bratva is usually a business arrangement, a way to cement alliances and produce heirs. But it’s a binding arrangement.
But looking at Alina now, I know this is already something different. Something more complicated.
"Go rest," I tell her. "I'll come get you when it's time."
She hesitates, then nods and leaves. I watch her go, then turn back to the window and pull out my phone from my pocket.
I make a few calls, coordinating security, making sure the estate is locked down tight.
Then I go to my bedroom and pull out the ring I had made years ago.
It's a heavy gold band with the Morozov crest engraved on it, meant for the woman who would one day be my wife. I never thought I'd actually use it.
The metal is warm in my palm as I turn it over, studying the intricate design. Once I put this on Alina's finger, there's no going back. She'll be mine in every way that matters in our world.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels right.
I shower and change into a dark suit, then go to get Alina. I find her curled up on the bed, still wearing the black dress, her red hair spread across the pillow. She looks so young, so vulnerable. But I know better now. I've seen the steel underneath.
"Alina." I touch her shoulder gently. "It's time."
She wakes immediately, no grogginess or confusion. Her eyes are clear and alert as she sits up. "Katya?"
"Alexei is bringing her now. She'll be here before the ceremony ends."
Relief floods her face, and she nods. "Okay. I'm ready."
"There's a dress in the closet. White, simple. It should fit."
She looks at me with surprise. "You had a wedding dress ready?"
"I had my housekeeper pick up a few things while you were resting. Just in case."
Just in case she said yes. Just in case I could convince her that this was the best option for both of us. Just in case I could make her mine.
Alina goes to the closet and emerges a few minutes later wearing a simple white dress that falls to her knees. It's nothing like the elaborate gown she wore to marry Sergei, but somehow, it's more beautiful. More real.
She's left her hair down, the red curls wild and untamed around her face. No makeup, no jewelry except for the panic button pendant I gave her, which she's still wearing. She looks like herself, not some dressed-up doll.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, and I mean it.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. "Thank you."
We walk downstairs together, and I'm acutely aware of her hand in mine. Small and delicate, but with a grip that's surprisingly strong. We enter my study, where two of my most trusted men are waiting. The priest stands before my desk, his vestments simple but traditional.
His eyes widen when he sees Alina, and I see him taking in the bruise on her cheek, the bandages on her wrists, the exhaustion in her face. But he's smart enough not to comment.
"Shall we begin?" he asks.
I nod, and Alina and I take our positions before him. There are no flowers, no music, no guests filling the pews. Just us, a handful of witnesses, and the weight of tradition.
The priest begins the ceremony in Russian, the ancient words flowing over us. I've heard these vows before at dozens of weddings, but they've never meant anything to me. Now, speaking them to Alina, they feel heavy with significance.
"Dimitri and Alina, servants of God, do you take each other as husband and wife? Do you promise to love, honor, and keep one another, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, forsaking all others, and remain faithful as long as you both shall live?"
"I do." My voice is steady, certain.
Alina hesitates for just a moment, and I see the war playing out behind her green eyes. Fear and determination, doubt and resolve. Then she lifts her chin and meets my gaze.
"I do."
I pull out the ring, and Alina's eyes widen when she sees it. The gold catches the light from the desk lamp, the Morozov crest gleaming.
"With this ring, I thee wed." I slide it onto her finger, and it fits perfectly. She stares at it, at the weight of it, at what it represents.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Konstantin says. "You may kiss the bride."
I cup Alina's face in my hands, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. Her skin is soft, warm, and I can feel her trembling slightly. Not from fear, I think, but from the enormity of what we've just done.
I lean in and kiss her, and something ignites between us. It's not the desperate, claiming kiss from before. This is different. Deeper. A promise and a beginning all at once.
Her hands come up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and I deepen the kiss, tasting her, claiming her. My wife. Mine.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Someone clears their throat, and I remember we have an audience. The priest looks slightly scandalized, but he's seen worse at Bratva weddings.
"Now," I say, my voice dropping low and rough, "we consummate our vows."
Her eyes widen, and I see heat flare in their green depths. "Right now?"
"Right now." I lean in, my lips brushing against her ear. "A wedding party can be held later. This is more important."