Chapter 11 Miko
MIKO
The day is gone in the blink of an eye. As the sun hangs low along the horizon, casting a golden glow through the three-story pane-glass windows of the ballroom, I stand before the altar.
The decorative arch and pedestal were placed at the far end of the room for just this occasion, and it gives the event a more official touch.
Beside me, the priest we managed to wrangle despite the short notice clears his throat as he scans his notes.
He looks nervous, but I suppose he would, considering the level of arm-twisting it took to convince him to perform the ceremony outside a Catholic church.
But a church would be a risk, and today, we’re not taking unnecessary chances.
Not with Anika.
The Novikov compound is a solidly defensible structure, and with our reduced number of men, we need to focus on tactical security over brute force.
As such, stationed surreptitiously around the room are armed Chiaroscuro men, ready to step in if any of our guests decide to try something.
Gio, Raf, and Sandro sit in the front row of seats as the wedding attendees fill the white folding chairs that face the altar.
My brothers’ fine Italian suits and stoic expressions set the mood for today’s event. It doesn’t feel like a celebration.
Not when our lives have been ripped apart and we’ve been left to pick up the pieces without Leo.
Not that I begrudge my brother his freedom—or his absence on my wedding day.
It would be too dangerous for him to make an appearance, especially with the fresh hostility between his wife, Sora, and her parents. In truth, it’s a risk just opening our doors to guests so soon after the Tanakas’ betrayal.
But I refuse to put this wedding off. It would show weakness not to move forward with our plans.
And every day that Anika remains Pyotr’s widow, without a husband to shield her from the aftermath of his death, she’s a target.
So, today is a strategic move meant to protect her—to make it crystal clear that any man who touches her will have me to reckon with—and at the same time, it will show our resilience as a family and further throw the feuding Novikov Bratva into turmoil.
But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want Anika for my own selfish reasons.
I want her more than any other woman I’ve met. Something about her draws me in, like a siren call.
It has since the moment she poured champagne on my chest.
A stir of restless energy ripples through the guests as they observe the shift in music.
The first notes of the wedding march rise from the baby grand piano, signaling the ceremony’s official start.
A hush falls over the room as all eyes turn toward the ballroom doors. And as they swing open, my heart leaps up to lodge itself in my throat.
Because as Anika steps across the threshold, she takes my breath away.
Her dress is simple, understated in the most elegant way, without the superfluous beads, sequins, or frills to draw attention away from the striking woman wearing it.
The snow-white fabric hugs Anika’s slight curves, cupping her breasts and cinching around her waist before flaring out around her surprisingly full hips.
The mermaid cut of her gown tapers out at her knees to form a train behind her.
And as she walks, it whispers silently across the marble floor.
The thin straps and triangles of her dress’s top show off her distinct collarbones, which are more enticing than they have any right to be, and her exposed skin is creamy and smooth above her plunging neckline.
A fresh flush colors her cheeks, but I can barely make it out beneath the veil that covers her face.
She hides behind it, just like the bouquet of white lilies clasped before her, which she clings to as if her life depends on it.
Her father isn’t here to walk her down the aisle. When I asked, she said she had no family to invite.
Whether that means they’re all dead or just estranged, I didn’t ask, but it’s one of the many details about her past I want to find out once I’ve broken down her guard.
Without a male guardian to hand her off, Anika walks down the aisle alone, her steps slow and deliberate, her shoulders back and chin high in a look of regal defiance.
She might hate me for killing her husband, for taking her as my wife without her consent.
She could have a hundred reasons not to want me, but I’m confident she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She steps up to the altar, handing off her bouquet before turning to face me, and I can’t take it a second longer.
Reaching forward, I lift her veil, folding it back so I can see her face. Again, I’m struck by her beauty, captivated by her sky-blue gaze framed with impossibly long lashes.
She’s wearing makeup today, and it completely masks the purple bruise on her cheek that’s started to fade to a mottled yellow-green.
Without the ugly reminder of how my family came bursting into her life, I’m able to fully focus on just how perfect her high cheekbones are, the soft line of her jaw that tapers to a stubborn chin.
Her full lips have been painted a deep dusky rose, and when they part slightly, revealing a glimpse of the small gap between her two front teeth, I nearly come undone.
If we weren’t standing in front of a roomful of guests, I might have stolen a kiss—because I’ve never wanted to know a woman’s lips like I do hers.
“Friends and family, we are gathered here today to witness the union between Michelangelo Chiaroscuro and Anika Novikov…” the priest begins, his words coming to me as if from far away.
I’m too focused on taking in the perfection before me to pay much attention to him.
I picked a fairly generic ceremony script, one that shouldn’t take too long to get through, because it won’t mean much to me, and based on how little she wants this wedding, I doubt Anika cares.
Before I know it, the priest is asking me if I take Anika to be my lawfully wedded wife.
“I do,” I state, my voice husky from disuse.
“And do you, Anika Novikov, take Michelangelo Chiaroscuro to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows, and for the first time, my gut clenches with the possibility that she might refuse to go through with it. The ramifications that would come from it.
“I do,” she breathes, her eyes shimmering with unshed moisture that tears at my heart.
“Do you have the rings?” the priest asks, looking pointedly in my direction.
Fishing into my pocket, I pull out a simple platinum band for me and a solitaire emerald-cut diamond ring for Anika before taking her hand.
For the first time, I notice the gold band she still wears on her left ring finger—her wedding band from Pyotr.
A flash of white-hot jealousy rips through me unexpectedly, and I smirk as I slide the ring off her finger and toss it over my shoulder.
“You won’t be needing that one any longer,” I state, drawing a chuckle from the guests watching. Then I slide the emerald-cut diamond onto her finger in its place.
Anika’s pulse jumps in her throat, and she swallows visibly as she looks down at the new ring on her hand.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” I say, echoing the priest’s archaic words.
Then I extend my hand so Anika can take my wedding band.
Her delicate fingers brush my palm as she plucks the ring from my grasp, and even that light touch sends electricity crackling across my skin.
Heat climbs up my arm as she takes my left hand and slides the ring onto my finger.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” she murmurs, looking up at me through those thick, dark lashes.
“By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest says. “You may kiss the bride.”
With one hand, I take Anika’s hip, cupping the back of her neck with my other as I pull her close, and I feel her stiffen, tensing with anxiety.
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, as if to push me away. But she doesn’t.
And as I lean in slowly, watching her striking face, I can hear the soft catch of her breath.
The enticing scent of cinnamon and rose drifts up to me, and I breathe her in as I lock down my self-control.
I can read the reticence in her body, her fear of my touch.
I’m not interested in forcing myself on any woman, so as much as I want to claim Anika’s lips right here and now—to taste her deeply for the first time—I keep it chaste.
Brushing my lips lightly across hers, I bite back my groan of desire as lightning rips through me, setting my blood on fire. My pulse surges at the soft sound of Anika’s gasp, and I wonder if she feels it too, the electric connection between us.
Clamping my teeth together, I force myself to pull back, releasing Anika as the room breaks into applause.
It’s a muted applause, and I’m fully aware of the grudging way our Russian guests clap, as though it’s a personal blow to their ego.
Good.
They’ve received the message. Now, it’s time to see just how much discord taking Anika as my wife will sow between them.
The wedding guests shift to the open area of the ballroom for our cocktail hour, and I note Gio and the twins mingling with the O’Connors and the Kellys to gain better rapport and feel out who might be an ally.
Sandro especially is the perfect man for the job, since he already has something of a camaraderie with the Irish after participating in the fighting pits they often host, and Raf has been known to come watch his brother fight often enough.
If anyone can talk them over to our cause, it’s the twins, with our most gregarious brother, Gio, as backup.
Meanwhile, it’s my turn to introduce Anika to the Italian families who have remained steadfast allies throughout our family’s recent misfortune. But first, I think Anika and I could both use a drink.
“Prosecco?” I suggest as I lead my new bride to the open bar.
Anika’s eyes flash up to meet mine, a guarded question flitting across her face, and it makes me think she remembers the night we first met—perhaps as clearly as I do. I wonder what she made of that encounter. She and Pyotr left so quickly after, I didn’t have the opportunity to find out.
“Yes, thank you,” she says, and I signal the bartender for two glasses of bubbly.
“Signor Chiaroscuro, congratulations on your big day. You’ve certainly found a stunner, haven’t you?”
I would recognize the sound of Matteo Lombardi’s voice anywhere, given the number of attempts I witnessed as he tried to coerce my brother Leo into taking his daughter’s hand in marriage—even if she’s not yet eighteen.
It’s no secret that Signor Lombardi hopes to join our families through marriage—particularly to whichever of Don Augusta’s becomes his official heir.
The man reeks of desperation, but I know better than to ignore him because he’s one of our strongest allies. And with six sons of his own, Matteo Lombardi’s direct descendants alone are almost enough to form a battalion. Not to mention, they’ve always been loyal to my father.
“Thank you, Signor Lombardi. May I introduce you to my wife, Anika? Anika, this is Matteo and his lovely wife Maria Lombardi.”
“A pleasure,” Anika says, her voice warm and welcoming in a way she hasn’t shown me since I killed her husband.
I steal a glance in her direction, caught off guard by the way she seems able to effortlessly switch on her charm. Even her smile is welcoming.
Matteo fixes me with a saccharine grin. “Peccato che sia russa. Avresti fatto meglio con una vera sposa italiana,” Matteo says, switching to Italian as he blatantly insults my wife right in front of her. Too bad she’s Russian. You would have done better with a proper Italian bride.
I bristle immediately, my fist clenching as I grind my teeth to keep my temper under control.
It wouldn’t do us any favors to make an enemy of the Lombardis right now, but I have half a mind to break his nose.
Instead, I take a generous swig of prosecco to occupy my mouth.
“Matteo,” Maria gasps, swatting her husband’s shoulder.
Then I freeze as Anika opens her mouth and perfect Italian flows out. “Non si preoccupi, Signor Lombardi. Anche mio padre mi ha insegnato a essere un vero italiano.”
I nearly spray my drink across the Italian couple at Anika’s flawless accent as she tells him her father taught her to be proper in Italian as well.
Matteo’s face goes white, and a deep satisfaction ripples through me as he stutters an apology and quickly excuses himself.
I had no clue Anika could speak Italian before now.
That means she’s understood everything my brothers have discussed in front of her this past week, and she hasn’t said a word.
But she waited to reveal that little secret at the perfect moment.
And the memory of Matteo Lombardi choking on his own tongue is going to live rent free in my brain from now on.
“Your Italian is flawless,” I observe, my lips curving into a smile as I turn toward my new bride.
Anika flushes, the blood pooling in her cheeks dark enough to seep through the layers of her makeup.
She glances up at me almost shyly, her brazen confidence from a moment ago vanishing, and I would do anything to draw it back out of her.
But before I can say another word, a commotion breaks out to our right.
It would appear the Russians have reached their boiling point, and two Bratva members come face to face as they snarl obscenities in their native tongue.
Anika steps forward, an objection on her lips as she tries to diffuse the conflict.
That’s when the knives come out.
I’m moving before I’ve even had time to think, but I’m not quite fast enough as one of the Russians slashes out, opening a deep gash on the other man’s arm.
Crimson blood sprays onto Anika’s pristine white dress, across her chest, and up her neck.
The instinct to protect her roars to life inside me, and I’m instantly ready to murder anyone who comes close to her.
Chiaroscuro men surge in from the perimeter of the room, ready to contain the situation, but I’m not waiting for them to arrive.
Wrapping one arm protectively around Anika’s waist, I pull her back so I can step between her and the brawling Russians.
Then I draw my gun from inside my suit jacket and press the muzzle to the temple of the man who stained her dress. “Go ahead, make one more move.”