Chapter 41 Stefan
STEFAN
I wake before Olivia. The weight of the ring is no longer an anchor in my pocket, but after days of touching it constantly and feeling it around the clock, the ghost of it is still there.
So is the edge of it, actually. It’s digging into my shirtless torso just slightly, since Olivia has her hand tucked between us where she’s curled up at my side.
Through the shutters, a teasing beam of Tuscan sun is lighting up the diamond.
I watch it sparkle for a long while, this tangible proof that she said yes.
That she chose me.
It’d be easy to let the fear of what this means consume me. Her yes is my newest vulnerability. A soft spot outside of me that any enemy could plunge a knife into. I do feel that fear; I’d be a fool to say I didn’t. But when I look down at her and smile, I feel none of it.
All I feel is certainty.
She must hear my thoughts, because she stirs awake. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks before her eyes open. Amber with flecks of gold. The first thing I see every morning now, the first thing I’ll see every morning for the rest of my life. And somehow, it never gets old.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning, Mrs. Safonov.”
Her smile is sleepy and radiant. “Not yet, Mr. Impatient.”
“Soon, though.”
“Mmmm.” She stretches, arching her back like a cat. The sheet slips down and I’m treated to the sight of her bare skin, the curve of her breast, the gentle swell of her stomach.
My hand finds that swell, fingers spreading across it possessively. “We should talk about the wedding,” I say.
She props herself up on one elbow. “Now?”
“Why not now?”
“Because I’m still half-asleep and you’re looking at me like you want to skip the talking part entirely.”
She’s not wrong. But this is important.
“I want to get married before the baby comes,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen. “That’s only a few months away.”
“I know.”
“Stefan, planning a wedding takes time. There’s the venue, the flowers, the dress, the guests—”
“We don’t need a big wedding. Just us. Our closest people. Something simple.”
She sits up fully now, pulling the sheet with her. “You want a small wedding? You? Of all people?”
“I want you to be my wife. Everything else is details.”
A laugh bubbles out of her. “You make it sound so easy.”
“That’s because it is easy. We pick a date. We say our vows. Boom, we’re married.”
“There’s a little more to it than that.”
“Not much.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Okay. Fine. Say I’m willing to consider this crazy, accelerated courtship of yours. When were you thinking?”
“Two weeks.”
Her jaw promptly hits the floor. “Two weeks?!” She nearly chokes on the words. “Stefan, that’s insane! I need to find a dress, and we need to send invitations, and book a photographer, and arrange catering, and— No, just no. Two weeks is too soon.”
“Three, then.”
“Stefan…”
“Four. Final offer.”
She squints at my face. I can see her weighing it, calculating, trying to figure out if it’s actually possible.
“You’re serious about this,” she says finally.
“Deadly.”
“Why the rush?”
Because I need you bound to me in every way possible. Because the thought of you changing your mind makes me want to fucking vomit. Because I’ve spent my entire life taking what I want and I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
“Because I love you,” I say instead. “And I don’t want to wait.”
Those are the magic words, apparently. “I love you, too.”
I grin. “So marry me. In four weeks.”
“In the backyard of the manor,” she decides. “With Elena there. She’d be devastated if she missed it.”
The fact that she’s already thinking about my grandmother, about including her, about making this a real family moment—it does something to my chest that I don’t have words for.
“Done,” I agree.
She bites her lip. “I should probably invite my parents.”
I tense. “Do you want them there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? They’re my parents, Stefan. Even if they drive me crazy.”
“Then invite them. But if your mother says one thing wrong—”
“I know, I know. You’ll throw her out.”
“I’ll do a hell of a lot worse than that.”
She laughs and kisses me. “Four weeks. I can work with four weeks.”
“Good. Now, we just need to get you a dress.”
Her face lights up. “Oh! I haven’t even thought about that.”
“Good thing I have, then. There are shops in Florence. We can go today.”
“Today?!”
“Why wait?”
She starts to answer, then stops. The crestfallen look that appears on her face nearly cracks my heart in two.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Olivia.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She picks at the sheet. “Shopping for a wedding dress alone just feels... I don’t know. Sad, I guess.”
It takes everything I have to hide my grin. I want so fucking badly to be everything to Olivia. Her protector, her safe place, her lover, her fighter. And I’m a lot of those things—most of them, even.
But I’m not the person she should have holding her hand while she tries on white dresses.
“I could come with you,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding.”
“That’s just superstition.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want to risk it.”
I pull her closer. “Then we’ll find someone else to go with you.”
“Who? Camille’s in Boston and my mother would just criticize every choice I make.”
Finally, I can’t help myself anymore. The first hint of a mischievous smile steals across my face. “What if Camille wasn’t in Boston?”
She pulls back to look at me. “What do you mean?”
“What if I told you I had Taras bring her down this morning?”
Her mouth falls open. “You didn’t.”
“What if I told you that, right now, as we speak, she’s at a hotel in Florence, waiting for you to call?”
Tears spring to her eyes. “You flew Camille to Italy?!”
“You need someone with you for this. Someone who’ll be honest about which dress makes you look good and which ones make you look like a cupcake.”
She laughs through her tears. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, actually, I did.”
She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me, hard and grateful and so full of love I can barely breathe. “Thank you,” she whispers against my mouth.
“You’re welcome.”
We stay like that for what feels like a perfect eternity. Then she pulls back, wiping her eyes.
“I should call her. Although she’s probably still asleep.”
“It’s nine in the morning.”
“Exactly. Camille doesn’t wake up before noon if she can help it.”
Olivia laughs and reaches for her phone anyway. She dials, puts it on speaker.
Camille answers on the third ring. “This better be good,” she mumbles exhaustedly.
“You’re in Italy!” Olivia practically squeals.
“And I’m jet-lagged as hell. Your fiancé is insane, by the way. But also kind of sweet. When he’s not being a raging asshole, that is.”
I lean toward the phone. “I can hear you.”
“Good. You should know that if you hurt her, I will find a way to make you suffer.”
“Noted, as always.”
Olivia’s grinning. “Can you be ready in an hour? We’re going dress shopping.”
“An hour? Liv, I look like death warmed over.” She sighs. “But for you, I’ll be ready.”
They hang up and Olivia turns to me, eyes bright. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Get used to it.”
“To what?”
“Me doing insane things to make you happy.”
She kisses me again. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“You’re marrying a monster. Let’s not get carried away.”
“My monster.”
The possessiveness in her voice goes straight to my cock. I pull her onto my lap, already hardening against her. “We have time before you need to leave,” I say.
“Do we?”
“At least thirty minutes.”
“That’s not much time.”
“It’s enough to get a few things done.”
I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. She gasps and arches into me. “Stefan—”
“Shh. Let me make you feel good, lisichka.”
And I do. Slowly, thoroughly, until she’s trembling and gasping my name.
By the time we make it downstairs, Taras is already there, drinking espresso on the terrace like he owns the place.
“Morning, lovebirds,” he calls.
“Taras,” Olivia says warmly. “Thank you for bringing Camille.”
He shrugs. “Wasn’t my idea. Blame your fiancé.”
“I do. Constantly.”
I pour myself coffee while Olivia grabs a pastry from the tray Mariolina left out.
“The car’s ready whenever you are,” Taras tells her. “Security detail is already in position.”
“Security detail?” Olivia asks.
“You think I’m letting you wander around Florence unprotected?” I scoff.
“I’ll be with Camille.”
“And six armed men who will shoot anyone who looks at you wrong.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. She’s getting used to my paranoia. Smart woman.
She kisses me goodbye at the door. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“Impossible.”
“I’ll be back before dinner.”
“Take your time. Buy whatever you want. Don’t look at the price tags.” I wag a warning finger in her face. “If you come back without at least three dresses, I’m going to be disappointed.”
She laughs. “Three?!”
“One for the wedding. One for the reception. One just because.”
One more kiss and she’s gone, climbing into the back of the SUV with three of the six Bratva soldiers who flew here for this security detail specifically. The other three are already scouting ahead.
I watch until the car disappears down the drive. When it’s gone, Taras claps me on the shoulder. “Congratulations, by the way, you miserable bastard.”
“Thanks.”
“Never thought I’d see the day Stefan Safonov got married.” He pauses, then asks, “What about Iakov, though?”
I tense. “What about him?”
“He’s still out there. Still feeding information to the feds. Still trying to take you down. Y’know, just in case you forgot.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you’re just going to get married and hope he doesn’t make a move?”
“I’m not hoping anything,” I counter. “I’m preparing for every possibility.”
“Including the possibility that he crashes your wedding?”
The thought makes my blood run cold. But I keep my face neutral. “He won’t get that far,” I growl.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Taras looks at me sidelong. “You actually like him, don’t you?”
I frown. “What?”
“Iakov. You respect him. The way he’s pulled back, built his own life. Part of you admires it.”
In a way, Taras is right. Iakov’s reclusive existence, his careful distance from the Bratva world—there’s something almost appealing about it. A quieter life. A safer one.
But he’s also trying to destroy me. And I can’t let that stand.
“Doesn’t matter if I like him,” I say. “If he’s coming after me, I have to respond.”
“Fair enough.”
My phone rings. Arkady’s name flashes across the screen.
I answer. “What is it?”
“We had an incident at the manor.” His voice is tight. Controlled. The way it gets when things have gone very, very wrong.
My grip on the phone tightens. “What kind of incident?”
“Someone tried to extract Mikayla.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “What?”
“They knew exactly where she was, sir. Came in through the east wing, took out two guards before we could respond. We stopped them, but it was close.”
“How many?”
“Three men. All dead now.”
“And Mikayla?”
“Still secure. Shaken, but unharmed.”
I exhale slowly. “Good. Increase security. I want eyes on every entrance, every window, every fucking blade of grass.”
“Already done.”
“And find out who sent them. I want names, addresses, everything.”
“Boss—” He pauses. “There’s something else.”
The hesitation in his voice makes my stomach drop. “What is it?” I demand. “Just fucking tell me.”
Another pause. When he speaks again, I don’t want to believe it.
“Say that again.”
He does.
“Again.”
He does.
“Say it fucking again, man!”
He tells me what happened one more time.
When he does, this time, it finally sinks in.
The phone drops from my hand and clatters on the terra cotta tiles.
Arkady is still saying something, but it’s barely audible, just a tiny rush of incomprehensible words dwarfed by the roar of blood rushing in my ears.
No.
No.
No.
Anyone but her.