Chapter 59 Lachlan
LACHLAN
“My boy,” Montana had whispered when Natasha floated toward us, a vision in white that stole the breath right outta me.
He clapped his heavy hand on my shoulder and gave it a good shake like he couldn’t hold his pride.
“You that brotha. You did good, bébé!” Some French Creole blended into his NOLA accent.
“Tasha walked straight out of heaven just for you. That’s beauty right there. ”
Och. I hadn’t expected that but knew he could be a softy.
Jamie chuckled, finally finding his footing after Ferri’s deceit. Said he’d even met the lad’s Nonna. Turned out to be some old dear who’d tried to mother him. Jamie even paid for her to attend Ferri’s funeral … as if he deserved one.
“Aye. You that brotha,” Jamie said, his voice an awkward blend of Scottish New Orleans that might make me laugh if my dream weren’t nearing with her father.
As he stepped away, her father’s words echoed in my skull—Love her. Protect her. I’d been trying to do both since the first moment she let me close.
The next few minutes became a time capsule I’d never forget. Natasha’s vows wrecked me. Right there at home plate, in front of sixty thousand strangers and the whole wide world, I felt like the only man alive.
When she finished her vows, I drew a breath.
The stadium, the fans, the cameras—all of it blurred, just noise on the edge of a diamond.
Heck, even the sweat beneath my collar, since I’d rushed to change from my uniform, didn’t matter.
I wasn’t self-conscious about a thing because the perfect woman loved me.
Natasha was softer than her veil that tickled my jaw.
Soft and kind and worthy of more love than I could offer.
But she chose me.
“My Natasha,” I began, possession in my voice, but something greater than that. Reverence. “The first time I saw you, I thought I’d spend my whole life chasing you. Guess being a Dodger prepared me for you.”
Her smile made every floodlight surrounding the stadium bow in admiration.
“You’ve been brave enough to let me in, and that bravery makes me want to be a better man every day.” Stepping closer to my bride, I whispered in her ear so the mic didn’t pick up our conversation. “I still plan to marry you every day and love you every night like it’s our first time too.”
And her cheeks flushed. Perfection.
Later, under the velvet black sky of Downtown Los Angeles, the rooftop lights at The Red Door twinkled like a thousand stars.
Our reception—though we’d have our private reception soon on the fully restored dock in Scotland—and the after-party celebrating the Dodgers’ World Series win, thrummed, and a live band played.
The city glittered around us, but nothing lit up the area the way my wife did, even if she had gotten tired of dancing already.
Vassili clinked his champagne glass with mine. Good. The second I’d stood to my full height after whispering the remainder of my vows to Natasha, I’d seen his glower. I thought he hated me again.
He muttered in Russian, then strolled toward another firepit.
“What did he say?” I turned to Natasha.
She lifted her head from my shoulder.
“Hold that thought.” I snaked an arm around her waist, returning her to her comfortable position. The scent of our shared colognes mixed with the cool night breeze. My cellphone vibrated on the ledge.
I glanced at the text ribbon.
MONTANA: Can’t hit the afterparty Lach. Gotta lay low.
MONTANA: But the BEST BASEBALL PLAYER IN THE WORLD booked your honeymoon. Check your email tomorrow lil’ bruh.
What did he do now? The man had a way of stirring up trouble and calling it laying low. I’d text him later and drag the truth out of him. For now, curiosity won. I pressed a button and opened my email.
“Ugh, Big Country.” He’d paid for us to go to Paris. “Guess we’re going on a honeymoon after all.”
Natasha smiled at the email. “Damn, Montana. That hotel price.” Her eyes widened. “Some best friend, huh.”
“Yep.” Pulling her closer, I kissed the top of her head and asked, “Now, what did Vassili just say?”
“That if I ever call you daddy, you’re …” She concluded the threat with a chuckle, kicking off a stiletto.
“Okay. Understood.”
“Wanna know what I don’t understand?” she murmured, sipping her champagne. She flicked her chin to the opposite side of the roof. “Simona won’t even go within twenty yards of your brother.”
I turned, following where she nodded.
“Anyway, I’m pretty sure Baran’s choice to stand guard and not drink … like …” Her throat tightened, and I peppered her neck with kisses until she found her voice again. “Not drink like Borya.”
“You know what Simona told you. Lorenzo—”
“He … he killed my drinking buddy. But I know there was nothing I could do. Anyway,”—Natasha dabbed her eyes—“so, in this instance? Yeah, I guess Baran’s standing guard and not enjoying libations is another layer of protection from Baby Jake.”
“They good, Natasha.” I nipped her collarbone. “We’re good.”
“And Mia slapped my brother—”
“She slapped Vassilievich?”
“Yep. In the hallway by the bathroom. Called him a stalker too. There’s a story there. No way is Vass a stalker. We need an intervention.”
I sighed, watching the firelight flicker in her hazel eyes.
“My family doesn’t have a good record with those.
Besides, like I said, we’re good.” I tipped my head.
“Well, I will stay out of their entanglement for a while … but she’s my niece.
” I lifted my shot glass in a gesture for her to do the same.
Natasha reached for her vodka then gasped. “How will we celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas—”
“Photoshop ourselves into—”
“So not funny, Lachlan. I already agreed not to photograph our wedding or most of your memoir.”
Her eyes had practically bugged when LaShawn broke the news that the publisher wanted images of us in the memoir.
While Natasha would still capture the cover photo, she wouldn’t grace any pages.
The Resnov Bratva had raised her in shadows.
We, savage Clan MacKenzie Scots, would continue to shield this gorgeous woman from the light.
I chuckled. “Hear me out, lass, we’ll just pop ourselves into both our family Christmas pics while we vacation in Thailand.”
Smiling, Natasha slid into my lap. She growled, “Shuddup and kiss me, Lachasha.”
“Gladly, as long as that name doesn’t appear in the memoir … along with any other deadly facts about either of our families.”
My fingertips feathered over her spine as she leaned in.
Though the space between us was nearly nonexistent already, I bridged the gap, leaning closer too.
This was marriage. Compromise. And I was ready for it, now that she’d stopped running from me.
My lips found hers. I had tasted her tears, but tonight, I treasured the champagne taste of my wife, Natasha MacKenzie.
THE END