Chapter Eleven
Anya
C ity hall is cold. Not only do they have the AC turned to max, but the walls are bare and impersonal. It’s nothing like the weddings I used to imagine as a child, but that girl, with dreams of white dresses and flowers, is long gone. This isn’t a fairy tale. This is survival, despite the white dress that was delivered to Riccardo’s house earlier this morning. It’s not the flowy, romantic kind I once dreamed of. Nope, I’m wearing a designer bodycon dress that clings to my every curve, stark white against my skin, making it clear this is no traditional ceremony.
It’s a decision born of necessity, especially after what almost happened with Dmitri.
Riccardo stands across from me, tall and composed. His suit is perfectly tailored, of course. He’s watching me with those dark eyes of his, the ones that always try to see through the walls I put up. But today, I don’t let them see anything.
This is a deal, nothing more.
I repeat the mantra I started chanting in my head since this morning when I was washing the dried cum from my thighs, trying to think about the fact that Riccardo fucked me without protection.
Sure, I’m lying to myself— how the fuck can this still only be about a business deal now —but if I repeat it often enough, I might start to believe it. And I need to believe it, because every single man I ever loved has abandoned me. Mikhail. My father.
Riccardo Angelo is hardly going to be the first man to stay loyal to me.
He might like to fuck me. He might even enjoy doing this to piss off Dmitri, and maybe even Gianna and my brother. But he doesn’t love me. Not like the faceless man in the weddings I dreamed up for myself as a child. That man wouldn’t have fucked me last night when I was barely holding it together. That man wouldn’t have risked my health by fucking me without protection.
I would need to get checked for STIs. This was twice now that we had sex without a condom. Only yesterday I didn’t have a spare thought to even process that. I’m not as worried as I probably should be, though. Riccardo doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who risks running around with some disease, the last couple of nights to the contrary.
Not that right now is the best moment to deal with that can of worms.
The official, a gray-haired man who looks bored with the whole thing, begins reading the vows. The words wash over me. I don’t listen. They don’t matter. Love, devotion, commitment —none of it applies here. This is my lifeline. I won’t end up as a pawn in someone else’s game and, more importantly, I won’t end up raped or dead.
I can feel Riccardo’s secretary, Bethany, standing stiffly next to me. When Riccardo said, let’s plan a wedding, he didn’t mean, let’s take our time doing it. He meant to make a few calls and get the show on the road. One of the calls he made was to Bethany, who had suggested I might want someone I know to be my maid of honor. Now her nervous energy is filling the room. The poor woman probably thinks I’m being forced to do this.
Behind Riccardo, Toni looms. If last night wasn’t enough of a clue, Toni’s presence is a keen reminder of how deep I’m stepping into Riccardo’s world.
“Do you, Riccardo Angelo, take this woman, Anya Tsepov, to be your lawful wedded wife?” The official’s voice drones on.
I look at Riccardo. His gaze is unwavering, as if this is the most natural thing in the world for him. But I see it, the flicker of something. Maybe it’s amusement. Maybe it’s something else. It doesn’t matter, because the next thing he says is, “I do.” His voice is deep and steady. There’s no hesitation.
Well, he already said I’m his. As if he got to simply declare that. As if him saying that made it true.
Then it’s my turn. The official turns to me, his voice a little softer, though still lifeless. “Do you, Anya Tsepov, take this man, Riccardo Angelo, to be your lawful wedded husband?”
The room feels small, like the walls are closing in. Fucking hell. Of all the things I’ve accomplished in my life, saying two words shouldn’t suddenly feel so hard. I take a breath, locking eyes with Riccardo.
I’m using him. But that leaves me vulnerable. Last night should make me think twice about saying yes. Sure, we’d fucked before, but last night he crossed a line. Now, with his right-hand man standing behind me, and his secretary thinking I’m here against my will, I should probably count my lucky stars and make a run for it. But, by taking this lifeline, I’m moving away from the failing protection of the Bratva and into Riccardo’s world.
It might not be perfect, but I’ll make it mine.
I won’t let any man dictate my life.
“I do,” I say, my voice clear, firm. The words come out like they belong to someone else, a version of me that’s willing to wear this mask for as long as it takes.
The official nods, barely glancing at us as he mumbles something about being husband and wife. And then it’s over. No kiss, no grand moment of celebration.
Bethany steps forward nervously, handing me a pen to sign the certificate. I take it, my movements automatic. I scrawl my name and hand the pen to Riccardo, my fingers brushing his for a moment longer than I intended. The touch sends a spark through me, but I shake it off. Today is about business.
Maybe later we can have our own version of a celebration. At this point, I might as well make the best of having him at my disposal. The sore spots on the insides of my knees where he held them apart last night are a good reminder that however fucked up he behaved, I can’t lie to myself and say I didn’t get off on it.
I only need to get some birth control from a clinic. And that STI test.
“It’s done,” Toni mutters behind Riccardo, his voice low. Bethany offers me a shaky smile, murmuring a quiet congratulation.
Riccardo steps closer, his eyes lingering on me for a second too long. “Mrs. Angelo,” he says softly, testing the title as if it means something.
Toni claps Riccardo on the shoulder, his face unreadable, though I catch the briefest glance in my direction. And then it hits me. As long as I keep playing my cards right, I’m in a position of power now. As long as I wear Riccardo’s last name, nobody can mess with me without consequences lashed out by the Angelo syndicate. And that counts for Russians and Italians alike.
The only man who might get away with hurting me now is Riccardo himself. And I won’t let him ever hurt me. Except maybe in bed. If he plays his cards right.
Riccardo
We pull up to the house in silence. I park the car and glance at Anya beside me. She’s staring out the window, her expression unreadable. Not exactly the picture of a happy, newlywed bride.
But then again, it’s hard to picture anyone looking like the picture-perfect virgin bride when they’re wearing a dress like the one I had delivered to the house this morning.
My eyes drop to her curves as the fabric hugs her body, every inch of her figure perfectly showcased. The dress is stark white, but it’s the way it clings to her that makes her look like a woman who just stepped out of my fantasies. And goddamn, it makes my dick stir.
There’s one way I could make her look more like a woman who just got hitched.
Except, I can’t right now.
I get out and walk around to her side, opening the door for her. She steps out, but avoids looking at me. It’s fucking frustrating since she sure as hell looked at me last night. It makes me want to push her back against the car and remind her that we might not be like other newlyweds, but I sure as hell have a lot to offer her. But after everything that’s happened yesterday, there’s a nagging feeling in me that I can’t put my finger on, so I simply walk up to the entrance, letting her trail after me.
I nod at the two men at the front door. Toni made the selection. I just told him that I needed extra security at the house now that Anya will be living here. I’m pleased to see Ren and Josh, though. They’re both good men, not that I keep any guys around that aren’t loyal and committed, but these two are also decent and won’t leer at Anya.
We step inside, and I close the door behind us. “I need to get to the office,” I say, not wasting time. My voice sounds more abrupt than I mean for it to, but it’s not as if this is some romantic day for either of us.
Anya raises an eyebrow. “Sure. I’ll start organizing the moving people.” We had agreed on that part earlier today. That she’d hire someone to move the necessary things from her apartment to my house. But, for some reason, this feels too familiar, too much like something I’ve seen before. Like I’m slipping into my father’s shoes without even realizing it. Suddenly having to head to the office doesn’t bother me so much anymore.
I might want Anya. Crave her even. But that doesn’t mean I ever wanted marriage . It just turns out to be what she needs right now, and giving it to her ties her to me in a way that’s almost enough to soothe the unease I’m feeling at the thought of her moving in.
“I’ll be back soon.” I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to push the thought out of my head.
This is different. We’re different.
Anya nods, already turning toward the living room, probably planning to make her calls from there. Her expression is neutral, unlike the growing frustration inside me. It’s like she doesn’t give a shit about what I do now that she got from me what she wanted. Like she’s already preparing herself for the distance between us, already expecting it.
We just got married half an hour ago, and she doesn’t give a shit that I have to work.
It makes me want to remind her what newlyweds are supposed to be doing the second they’re alone. I step toward her, ready for a repeat of last night, only for my phone to ding in my pocket. I look at my watch to read the short text.
I’m outside.
It’s from Toni. He followed us here so we could ride to the office together since we have plenty of things that need to be discussed and we can’t waste any more time since the entire morning has already been eaten up by the wedding.
“See you later, then. I’ll make introductions to the staff later, but in the meantime, they all know we got married this morning. If you have questions, you can talk to Mrs. Batton. She’s my housekeeper.” Earlier, I didn’t have the chance to introduce her since Toni arrived with coffee and bagels and we stayed in the office making calls to pull off the rushed ceremony until it was time to get hitched. Now, I turn around and leave the house, feeling pissed and frustrated.
Not once did Anya ask me why I had to leave right after our wedding. Which is exactly how she suggested this would go. Business-like, less messy. But there’s a part of me that hates how easily she lets me go. Like she expected nothing from me, the same way my mother used to expect nothing from my father.
But I made things messy last night.
The thought soothes something in me.
The reminder that my cum was seeping from between her legs last night after she fell into an exhausted sleep gives me the grim satisfaction that lets me walk outside and join Toni in his car.
When we reach the office building, I step into the lobby, nod at the security guard, and head up to the top floor.
Toni follows me, but takes off when I reach my office. He’s got shit to do, too. A couple hours of annoyingly unproductive work later, Bethany informs me that Toni is on his way up to talk to me. He’s the only one who can tell Bethany that he’s got something important and all she does is let me know he’s on his way. Everyone else gets thrown somewhere into my schedule, depending on how urgent things are.
When Toni comes in, he immediately starts pacing in front of my desk. “Boss,” he says, straightening up as he turns to me like he’s been rehearsing this. “There’s been... talk.”
I arch a brow. “What kind of talk?”
Toni hesitates, and that alone tells me it’s not good. “Some of the old guard—you know, your father’s people—they’re wondering if you’re going soft. The marriage to Anya Tsepov... some of them don’t like it. They think it’s a play for peace. You know, Gianna and you each get a Tsepov sibling and you split the Bratva territory. One of them called it a ‘pussy way out’. Like you need Anya to keep things from getting messy, rather than laying down the law, old school.”
I grit my teeth. The fucking irony. No matter what I do, my father’s shadow follows me, like a stain I can’t scrub clean. Which is just a fucking joke, since he was the one who suggested I marry Gianna to unite the Italian front and lessen possible frictions. And to gain power, of course. Always power, but a strategic marriage nonetheless.
But when I actually marry for strategic purposes, I’m seen as weak. Fuck that.
“They forget what kind of man my father was,” I say, my voice low, almost a growl.
Toni shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t think they forget, boss. I think that’s exactly why they’re nervous.”
The words hit me harder than they should. My father was a goddamn legend in Toronto—ruthless and commanding respect wherever he went. But that’s not what I remember. What I remember is how he’d rant to my mother, his frustration spilling out over dinner, over drinks, over everything. He’d parade her around at parties, make her smile for the cameras, but when the doors closed, she was just... there. A vessel for his anger. And when he wasn’t angry, he wasn’t there at all.
I sit behind my desk, trying to shake the thought. But Toni’s words keep circling back, and so do the memories of my mother. She wasn’t like Anya. She never fought back, never demanded more from him. She just... withered. Until she couldn’t take it anymore.
With everything Anya went through yesterday, she still rallied. Still got up and got shit done today. Things she orchestrated. Things she wanted.
“Do they really think I’m soft?” I ask, my tone sharper than I mean it to be. “Or are they just harping about the news now and will get back in line when everyone has had a chance to gossip?”
I told Bethany to send out an email about the wedding. A brief announcement, since I need people to hear it from me first. But as much as I employ men and women loyal to the syndicate, and as much as many of them are guys more comfortable shooting someone in the head than drinking a cup of tea, they still fucking gossip. And the news is very fresh.
Toni looks me in the eye, his expression carefully neutral. “They think you’re different. And maybe that’s what worries them.”
Different. I can’t even tell if that’s a compliment or an insult.
“I’m not my father,” I mutter, almost to myself.
Toni doesn’t respond right away, but I see the way his jaw tightens, like he knows better than to argue with me on this. “No, you’re not. But you know how people talk.”
I lean back in my chair, staring out the window at the city below. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. It’s not just the men who are talking—it’s me. It’s my own mind, whispering that maybe I’m using Anya. That maybe I’m no better than my old man.
And I still want to keep using her. Because she makes me feel possessive.
Toni’s voice breaks the silence. “Look, boss, whatever they say, it’s your call. You’ve got your reasons. And most of the men respect that. They’ll fall in line. But I think it’d be a good idea to give them something to do. You know, give them something to be busy, so they stop talking too much. Something that sets an example.”
I nod, not paying attention even though I know Toni is right, because I just realized that I’ve missed something important. With all the annoyance over Anya not caring that I left, I never really asked why she didn’t care. Perhaps now that she has my protection, she’s left without a plan for what comes next? Maybe she’s indifferent, or maybe she needed time to collect herself?
Toni’s still talking, but all I can hear is the echo of my mother’s voice years ago, telling me that it was fine, that she was fine. And I believed her. Until the day I found her, slumped on the bathroom floor, an empty pill bottle beside her.
The memory tightens in my chest, a familiar ache. I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known that being used as a tool, as a punching bag, was breaking her apart. But I didn’t. And now I’m left wondering how I’m ever supposed to figure Anya out, if she’s going to just shut me out. If she says she’s fine, how the hell am I supposed to know if it isn’t true?
Toni clears his throat. “Do you want me to come up with something to take care of the old guard? Shut down the talk?”
The suggestion is out of character. Toni knows I hardly ever allow someone else to make the plans. Which means he must notice how distracted I am to even suggest it.
“No,” I say, my voice hardening. “I’ll get back to you within the hour with something.”
Toni nods, satisfied. He heads for the door, leaving me alone to get back to whatever I was supposed to be doing this morning. Except, it’s my goddamned wedding day and I’ll be damned if I don’t consummate the shit out of Anya today.
Let her pretend she doesn’t need to talk to me while I fuck her into oblivion. Let her pretend she doesn’t care if I walk away from her after that.