Chapter Six
Alexei’s POV
The wedding was over. The guests had retreated in a trail of expensive perfume and whispered speculation, leaving behind a silence that was far more honest than the champagne-soaked laughter of an hour ago.
Outside, the city of New York shimmered like a cold jewel, but here, on the Lobanov estate, the world had shrunk to the size of a fortress.
I stood at my office window, the lights dimmed to a low, amber hum.
In my hand, a glass of whiskey felt heavy, a grounding weight against the phantom sensation of silk and lace that had dominated my day.
Beyond the glass, the grounds were alive with a quiet, lethal efficiency.
Flashlights swept the tree line as my men moved through the shadows—ghosts in body armor ensuring that the truce of the wedding day hadn’t been violated the moment the last limousine pulled away.
Inside, the estate hummed with that specific silence that comes after violence hasn’t yet happened but has been promised.
Every guard I had passed on my way to the office had kept their eyes lowered, their posture rigid.
They knew. We all knew. This wedding wasn’t a union of hearts; it was a declaration of war. Or of readiness for it, in the least.
I took a sip of the whiskey, the burn hitting the back of my throat.
Even through the scent of the peat and the oak, I could still smell her.
Mila Petrov. No, Mila Lobanov. The scent was faint but pervasive: roses and something softer, something clean and warm that had no business belonging to a man like me.
It was a smell that spoke of libraries, of quiet mornings, of a life lived in the sun.
I tightened my grip on the glass until my knuckles turned white.
I told myself this was a strategy. I had given her a shield against Enzo Moretti. I had taken a girl who was a sitting duck and turned her into a sovereign of the Bratva. It was a calculated move, a piece of grandmaster logic to stabilize the board.
But when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see the board.
I saw her walking down the aisle. She had looked like a porcelain angel forced to marry the devil.
She was fragile, her hands trembling as they held her bouquet, yet she had looked at me with a defiance that had nearly brought me to my knees.
When she had whispered “I do,” her voice had been a tiny, fractured thing, but it had echoed through the chapel like a thunderclap.
I had spent my entire life turning myself into marble—cold, precise, unshakable. But the moment those words left her lips, something inside the stone had cracked. A fissure I couldn’t ignore.
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door shattered the quiet.
“Enter,” I said, not turning from the window.
Viktor Lobanov stepped in. He didn’t wait for an invitation; the Pakhan never did.
He smelled of woodsmoke and gunpowder—a reminder of the “business” he had likely settled in the basement while the rest of us were drinking to my health.
Viktor was blunt; his version of love was written in blood and fire.
“Oh. I didn’t know it was you, cousin.”
“The guests are clear of the perimeter,” Viktor said, his voice a low grumble. “Dimitri has the second shift on high alert.”
“Yes. I know,” I replied.
“There are whispers, Alexei,” Viktor continued, his tone turning clinical. “Enzo isn’t just brooding in a basement. He’s calling in markers from the Jersey crews. They’re preparing a retaliation strike. It won’t happen tonight—but soon. Very soon.”
I finally turned to face him. “I’ve already doubled the guards at the docks. If Enzo wants to bleed, I’ll give him an ocean.”
Viktor studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he nodded like someone who knew something I didn’t. And he always did.
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Just remember, Alexei. A shield is only useful if the man holding it doesn’t get distracted by the view.”
He left, and the silence returned, heavier than before. Until Dimitri and two tactical analysts came to review the shipping manifests for the morning.
I sat behind my desk, the mahogany surface covered in tablets and intelligence reports. This was my routine. This was where I felt most at home—in the cold logistics of empire-building.
“The Newark warehouse is the primary concern,” Dimitri said, pointing to a glowing red sector on a digital map. “If they hit us there, they cut off the supply chain to the garment district. We need to reroute the trucks by 04:00.”
I looked at the map, but the red lines started to blur. I found myself staring at the cufflink on my left wrist—the gold crest of my family. I remembered her fingers brushing against my sleeve during the vows. Her skin had been like ice, a stark contrast to the heat I had felt radiating from her.
“Boss,” Dimitri’s voice pulled me back.
“Reroute them through the Holland Tunnel,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my ears. “But put an empty decoy convoy on the original path. I want to see if Enzo has the stomach to pull the trigger.”
“Done, boss,” he answered.
“Boss, the analyst found a link between the Jersey crews and the port authority,” one of the two men informed, unaware of the war happening inside my head.
“Good,” I muttered. “Exploit it. Blackmail the supervisor or buy him. I don’t care which.”
My mind drifted again. I imagined her in the bedroom. Had she taken off the dress? Was she sitting by the window, looking out at the city she had lost? I felt a sudden, sharp surge of possessiveness. She wasn’t just a move on a board. She was the board.
“That’s all for tonight,” I said abruptly, standing up. The movement was so sudden that the analysts were startled. “Dimitri, walk the perimeter one last time. Everyone else, clear out.”
“It’s only eleven, boss,” Dimitri noted, carefully standing his ground. “We still haven’t cleared the European logistics.”
“I said clear out,” I repeated, my voice leaving no room for argument.
Dimitri watched me for a second, a flicker of knowing in his eyes that I wanted to beat out of him. He knew exactly where I was going.
“Goodnight, boss,” he said softly. “And happy married life.”
The office cleared. I was alone with the hum of the servers and the scent of her that seemed to have permeated the very walls of the estate. I finished the whiskey in one swallow, the liquid burning like a penance.
I was a man of marble. I was a man of stone. I didn’t feel. I didn’t drift. I didn’t lose focus.
And yet, every step seemed to loosen something in me. The walk upstairs felt like an eternity. The marble staircase, usually a symbol of my family’s permanence, felt cold and hollow beneath my boots. Every guard I passed was a blur of black fabric and suppressed breathing.
I reached the door to the master suite. My hand hovered over the gold handle as I suddenly felt like a trespasser in my own home.
I pushed the door open.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamps. The heavy cream gown I had spent thousands on was draped over a velvet chair, looking like a discarded skin.
Mila was sitting at the edge of the bed. She had shed the armor of the bride. She was wearing a simple white silk slip that shimmered in the low light, her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders in wild, uncombed waves. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white.
She looked up at me, and the expression on her face hit me harder than any bullet ever could. It was a volatile mix of defiance and raw, unadulterated terror. She looked so small against the massive headboard, a rabbit caught in the gaze of a wolf.
And yet, she didn’t look away. She remained wild in her quietness; sharp beneath the softness.
She’s herself.
“I’m not yours,” she whispered.
The words were a blade. Sharp. Cold. Intended to draw blood.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t move toward her with the arrogance of a victor. I simply looked at her, letting the silence of the room settle between us.
“Yes, you are,” I replied.
It wasn’t a boast. It was a statement of fact. In the world I inhabited, names were the only currency that mattered. She carried the Lobanov name now. She wore the Lobanov ring. The world outside those windows saw her as my extension, my property, my soul.
“A name is just a word, Alexei,” she hissed as if she’d heard my thoughts, her voice gaining strength. “You can lock the doors. You can put a thousand men in the garden. You can force me to stand at an altar. But you don’t own me. You will never own me.”
I began to move toward her then, my footsteps silent on the thick rug.
I didn’t touch her. I stopped just inches away, close enough that the air between us became thick and pressurized.
I could see the rapid, frantic pulse in her throat.
I could see the way her breath stumbled, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
“I have built a fortress around you, Mila,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. “I have made you untouchable. I have given you my life as a shield. If you want to call that a cage, fine. But it is the only cage in this city that will keep you alive.”
“I would rather be in danger and free than safe and your prisoner,” she snapped.
“We wouldn’t be here if you chose to be unsafe,” I pointed out.
I leaned down, invading her space until our faces were inches apart. I could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes—eyes that were currently trying to burn a hole through my soul. I reached out, my fingers barely grazing the skin of her jaw as I tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
She shivered at the contact, a visible tremor that went through her entire body. She hated me. I could feel the heat of it radiating off her. And yet, she didn’t pull away.
I could have touched her. I could have claimed the rights the marriage contract gave me. I could have ended the night by proving to her exactly who I was and what I could take.
But as I looked at her, I felt that crack in the marble again. That sharp, uninvited twist in my chest. If I took her by force I would become the monster she already believed me to be.
Who am I kidding? I’m a damn monster.
That brought me to a new discovery: I wanted to try to be less of a monster to her. Not because her opinion of me could do me any harm. But, I just… preferred her not feeling terror at the sight of me.
I leaned in, my mouth inches from her ear. I didn’t touch her with my lips, but the proximity was enough to make her gasp.
“Sleep, Mila,” I whispered. “You’ll need your strength soon.”
I pulled back, the loss of her heat leaving me feeling strangely hollow. I looked at her one last time—at the white knuckles, the silk slip, the wild hair.
I turned and walked toward the dressing room, my footsteps heavy.
For a man who had killed without blinking, for a man who had built a life on the corpses of his enemies, that small moment of gentleness terrified me more than any strike from the Morettis ever could.
I had married her to keep her safe. But as I closed the door, I realized I was the one who was truly in danger. I had let an angel into my house, and I was terrified she was going to teach me how to feel the fire.