Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Vittoria
The city lights blur past the tinted windows of the SUV.
I sit between Amanda and Mamma in the back seat. Dante drives. Elio rides shotgun, his hand resting near his concealed weapon like it always does when we're in transit.
Amanda chatters about something.
Her date with Dylan. The photographer who wants to take things slow. How she's not sure if she likes that or if it's driving her crazy.
I nod at the right moments.
Make sounds of agreement when she pauses for breath.
But I'm not really listening.
Something feels wrong.
Not wrong exactly.
Off.
Like the air pressure changed and my body noticed before my brain could catch up. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and feeling the pull of gravity even though you're not falling yet.
My hands rest in my lap.
The hot pink dress Mamma insisted I buy spreads across my thighs. I should feel beautiful.
Confident.
Ready to walk into Nexus on Dmitri's arm and announce our engagement.
Instead, my stomach twists.
My pulse hammers against my throat.
"Vittoria?"
Mamma's voice cuts through Amanda's monologue.
I turn my head.
"Sì, Mamma?"
"You're quiet."
"Amanda's talking." I gesture at my friend. "Someone has to listen."
"Hey." Amanda swats my arm. "I'm sharing important life updates. This is quality best friend content."
But Mamma doesn't smile.
Her gaze stays locked on my face.
Searching.
"Are you nervous about tonight?"
"No."
The lie comes too fast.
Too sharp.
Mamma's expression shifts. Softens. She reaches over and takes my hand. Her skin is warm. Soft. She smells like the Chanel perfume she's worn since before I was born.
"It's natural to be nervous," she says. "This is a big announcement. Both families will be there. Other families too. Everyone will be watching."
"I'm not nervous."
"Vittoria—"
"I'm fine, Mamma."
I pull my hand away.
Smooth my dress even though it doesn't need smoothing.
The silence stretches.
Amanda shifts beside me. She knows when to push and when to retreat. Right now, she's retreating. Pulling out her phone. Pretending to check Instagram while the tension builds.
"You look beautiful," Mamma tries again.
"Thank you."
"The dress is perfect. Your hair is perfect. Dmitri won't be able to take his eyes off you."
"That's the plan."
"And you're happy?" Her voice drops. Goes soft. Vulnerable in a way Mamma rarely allows herself to be. "With him? With this marriage?"
I turn to look at her.
She's dressed in deep burgundy. Elegant. Timeless. Her hair is swept up in a classic style that makes her look younger than her years. Diamonds glitter at her throat and ears.
She's beautiful.
She's also terrified.
I can see it in the tightness around her mouth. The way her hands clasp together in her lap. The slight tremor in her voice.
She's afraid I'm making a mistake.
Afraid I'm being forced into something I don't want.
Afraid she failed me as a mother by pushing the marriage issue in the first place.
"I'm happy," I say.
And it's not a lie.
Not entirely.
I am happy with Dmitri.
When we're alone. When he's touching me.
But this feeling in my chest?
This wrongness?
It has nothing to do with happiness.
"Good." Mamma's shoulders relax slightly. "That's all I want for you, tesoro. Happiness. A good man who treats you well. A partnership like your father and I had."
My throat tightens.
"Dmitri treats me well," I say.
"He better." Amanda finally looks up from her phone. "Because if he doesn't, I know where he lives and I'm not afraid to key his car."
That breaks the tension.
Mamma laughs.
I manage a smile.
The SUV slows.
We're close now.
I can see the line outside Nexus stretching down the block. The velvet ropes. The bouncers checking IDs and turning away anyone who isn't in the list.
But we won't be waiting in line.
We'll go straight to the private entrance.
Straight to Dmitri.
"Almost there," Dante says from the front seat.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
He knows something's wrong.
I can see it in the way he's watching me. The slight furrow between his brows. The tension in his shoulders.
Dante has known me since I was a child.
He taught me how to throw a punch. How to break someone's nose. How to use my small size as an advantage instead of a weakness.
He can read me better than most.
I look away first.
Focus on the club growing larger as we approach.
The feeling in my chest intensifies.
Like a warning.
Like my body knows something my brain hasn't figured out yet.
"Everything's going to be fine," Mamma says.
She's talking to herself as much as to me.
"Of course it is." Amanda squeezes my hand. "You're going to walk in there looking like a goddess. Dmitri's going to lose his mind. Everyone's going to see how perfect you are together. It'll be amazing."
The SUV pulls up to the private entrance.
Elio gets out first.
Scans the area with professional efficiency before opening Mamma's door.
She exits with practiced grace.
Amanda follows.
Then it's my turn.
I take Elio's offered hand.
Step out onto the sidewalk.
The bass from inside the club thrums through the ground. Through my bones. Through the wrongness sitting in my chest like a stone.
Dmitri is waiting for me.
My entire family will be there.
Pietro. Nico. Lorenzo. Bruno didn't want to come. He is mad at me but even if he wasn't, he doesn't go public.
The Baganovs will be there too.
All of Dmitri's siblings. His people. His world.
Everything is going to be just fine.
Right?
I smooth my dress one more time.
Lift my chin.
And walk toward the door.
Dmitri
I stand between Pietro, Aleksander, and Nico near the entrance to Nexus's main floor, watching the private door like a man waiting for salvation. The club pulses with bodies and music, but none of it registers. My focus narrows to that single point of entry.
Igor hovers nearby, tablet in hand, updating me on guest arrivals. I don't hear a word he says.
Then she walks in.
Bozhe moy.
Vittoria moves through the doorway in a dress the color of sunset when it turns pink. Gold jewelry catches the light at her throat, her wrists, her ears.
She's devastating.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Every instinct screams at me to cross the distance between us, pull her against me, claim her mouth in front of everyone here. Show them all exactly who she belongs to.
Instead, I force myself to remain still.
"Your fiancée is beautiful," Aleksander murmurs beside me, approval in his voice.
Pietro shifts on my other side. "She looks nervous."
I track Vittoria's movements as she pauses just inside, her mother and Amanda flanking her. Her eyes scan the crowd—searching for me, I realize with satisfaction. When her gaze finally lands on our group, there comes a change across her face. Like relief.
She starts toward us.
Each step feels like torture. I hate this performance, the audience, the need to maintain distance when all I want is her skin against mine.
We could announce the engagement in five minutes and leave.
Tell everyone to get the fuck out. Lock the doors.
Spend the rest of the night with her spread across my bed upstairs.
Vittoria draws closer, weaving through clusters of guests who part for her automatically. I notice men's eyes following her progress and have to consciously unclench my jaw.
Twenty feet away now. Fifteen.
Her mother says something to her, but Vittoria's attention stays fixed on me. Those dark eyes hold mine.
Ten feet.
I step forward, unable to wait any longer. Pietro and Nico move with me—a united front of families joining together. Aleksander follows half a step behind.
Five feet.
Close enough now to see the flutter of her pulse at her throat. The slight part of her lips. The way her fingers twist together at her waist.
She stops directly in front of me, chin lifted, meeting my gaze without flinching. The urge to grab her, kiss her, mark her as mine in front of this entire room nearly overwhelms my control.
But I think of Karolina. Of Natalia. Of how I'd react if some man treated them with anything less than absolute respect in a moment like this.
So instead, I reach for Vittoria's hand.
Her fingers slide into mine. I lift her hand to my lips, holding her gaze as I press a kiss to her knuckles. Old-world courtesy. The kind of gesture my father would have approved of.
The kind of gesture that says: This woman is precious. This woman is valued. This woman is mine, and I will honor her.
Vittoria's breath catches. Then she smiles.
Fuck.
That smile transforms her entire face. Lights her up from within. Makes her even more beautiful than she was seconds ago, which shouldn't be possible.
It's so fucking perfect I forget how to breathe.
"Solnyshko," I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
Her smile widens. "Dmitri."
My name on her lips does things to me that aren't appropriate for public consumption. I force myself to release her hand before I do something stupid like pull her against me and to hell with propriety.
Pietro clears his throat. "Shall we?"
Right. The announcement. The reason we're all here.
I offer Vittoria my arm. She takes it, her hand settling into the crook of my elbow like it belongs there. Like she belongs at my side.
"Ready?" I ask.
She looks up at me, that perfect smile still in place. "Ready."
I reach into my jacket pocket, fingers closing around the velvet box I've carried for the past three days. The weight of it feels heavier now, with everyone watching.
Pietro shifts beside me. Nico's gaze tracks my movement. Aleksander stands perfectly still, but I sense his attention sharpening.
I pull out the box and open it.
The ring is an emerald-cut diamond flanked by smaller stones, set in platinum. Simple. Elegant. Expensive as fuck, but not ostentatious. The kind of ring that says forever without screaming for attention.
Vittoria's eyes widen. Her hand tightens on my arm.
"May I?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
She nods, unable to speak.
I take her left hand, sliding the ring onto her finger.
Vittoria stares at her hand. Then she looks up at me and smiles.
But something's wrong.
The smile reaches her mouth but doesn't quite touch her eyes. There's a tightness around them. She's performing—playing the role of happy fiancée—but underneath...
What's wrong, solnyshko?
I want to ask. Want to pull her aside, demand she tell me what's bothering her. But we're surrounded by family, by guests, by expectations. This moment isn't ours. It belongs to the alliance, to the performance of unity between Bratva and Cosa Nostra.
So I file the observation away. We'll talk later. After the announcement. After the obligatory mingling and toasts and political theater.
I'll get her alone and find out what put that false note in her smile.
"It's beautiful," Vittoria says, her voice steady despite whatever's churning beneath the surface.
"Like you," I reply, meaning it.
Her smile shifts—becomes more genuine for a heartbeat. Then the mask slides back into place.
I take Vittoria's hand and lead her toward the small stage Igor set up near the DJ booth. She follows without hesitation, though I feel the slight tremor in her fingers.
Something's definitely wrong.
We climb the three steps. The stage puts us above the crowd, visible to everyone in the club. I position Vittoria slightly in front of me, my hand settling at the small of her back.
A waiter appears with two champagne flutes on a silver tray. I take both, handing one to Vittoria.
I raise my free hand. The DJ cuts the music immediately. Conversations die. Heads turn toward the stage.
Silence fills Nexus.
Every eye in the club focuses on us. Sartori family. Baganov siblings. Allied families. Business associates. People who came to pay respects after my father's death and stayed for the spectacle of what comes next.
I don't give a prepared speech. Don't waste time with flowery language or political maneuvering.
"Thank you all for being here tonight," I say, my voice carrying across the space. "We're gathered to announce that Vittoria Sartori and I are getting married."
Simple. Direct. Exactly what it needs to be.
I lift my glass. Vittoria raises hers, the diamond on her finger catching light, sending sparkles across the stage.
"To new alliances," I say. "To family. To the future."
Our glasses touch with a clink.
I drink, watching Vittoria over the rim. She brings the champagne to her lips, takes a sip, her throat working as she swallows.
Applause erupts. Loud. Enthusiastic. The kind of response that says everyone here understands the significance of this union.
The sound builds—hands striking together, voices rising in congratulations, the noise of celebration filling every corner of Nexus.
Then it stops.
Not gradually. Not a natural fade.
It stops.
The main entrance doors slam open.
Ten men pour through. Maybe more. Black tactical gear. Faces covered. Weapons raised.
Avtomaty. Automatic rifles.
They don't announce themselves. Don't make demands.
They just start shooting.
The first burst of gunfire shatters champagne glasses at the bar. The second rips through the crowd. People scream. Bodies drop.
My hand is already moving—reaching for the Glock at my hip, pushing Vittoria down, covering her body with mine as we hit the stage floor.
More gunfire. The sound deafening in the enclosed space. Muzzle flashes lighting up the entrance like lightning.
Glass explodes. Wood splinters. Someone near the bar goes down hard.
Fuck.