Chapter 25 #4
She presses the gold one into my palm. It’s warm from her skin, and something in my chest goes tight.
The pen is suddenly in my hand. Her eyes are on my mouth.
My pulse does something reckless. Because she’s not just marrying me.
She’s choosing my name. Choosing to bind herself to a family drowning in blood and betrayal—because she wants me.
I sign in clean block strokes: Stephano Allessio Conti.
She signs like she’s writing the names of dead men she’s sworn vengeance on, Oksana Arsenyev Conti.
And it still feels like she’s mine.
"Congratulations," Judge Molina says gently, as if we were ordinary people. Then he straightens and adds in perfect Italian, "May your enemies die young and in pain."
Outside, the night feels different. Not softer, never that.
But clearer. The Suburban hums to life; the radios crackle; Oksana’s men check in with the bored cadence of people who are ready to kill again.
She opens the red velvet box and stares at the huge five-carat diamond, "Ah, Marito, you shouldn't have. "
I war against the rising anger that I didn't even have a chance to buy her a ring, realizing that it has no room here. Oksana is the most independent woman I've ever met, and I’d better get used to it. "I'll get you a proper ring once we're back in New York."
"I like this one." She pouts.
"I like for you to wear one I actually bought for you, Mrs. Conti."
She looks like she wants to object, then shakes her head. "As you wish, Marito."
"Now I'm scared," I mutter. Her being agreeable is not something I can stomach easily.
"The bank won't open until the morning. I made hotel reservations."
"Of course you did," I smirk. Pleased with what we just did.
And pleased that she took the initiative.
Oksana is not a woman wooed by grand gestures.
She had to take this step, I realize that.
But we're still going to have a large wedding back in New York, an Italian wedding.
Maybe Italian-Russian, my mouth turns into a small line.
"What are you pouting over?" She demands, already knowing me all too well.
"I was thinking about our wedding and contemplating how we'll get the mafia and the Bratva into one room without them killing each other." I fill her in.
"What do you mean? We just got married," for a top assassin, she seems a bit slow when it comes to me.
"Oh, Zhena, you married an Italian. We'll have to have a big wedding, or my mamma will turn in her grave. And think of Nico, being deprived of being my best man and your brother of walking you down the aisle." I dangle the bait.
She narrows her eyes, "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"
"I plead the fifth."
"The fifth doesn't exist in Russia."
"We are in the United States."
"Technically, we're in Mexico," she contradicts, making me laugh.
I pull her over, closer to me, and kiss her until her objections turn to smoke.
"Big wedding?"
"Is that a question or a demand?"
I chuckle, "As if I could ever demand anything of you."
"You could try," she grins devilishly.
"I'd rather live."
"Smart man."
The car stops.
The hotel is neither luxurious nor downtrodden. Middle class. Perfect for us to hide out.
"I booked the honeymoon suite," she fills me in.
"In this dump, I can only imagine what it will look like."
She elbows me. "Snob."
"Not my fault, I was born with a silver spoon." I grin.
The elevator takes us up to the top floor, and as soon as we exit, I pull her into my arms to carry her bridal style over the threshold.
"I didn't know you were such a romantic," she melts into me.
"For you, I'll be anything you want me to be," I admit. It's the truth, too. This woman has not just completely turned my world upside down; there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her.
The room is everything I had expected. Gaudy, garish, overdone. The bottle of champagne, swimming in melted ice in a silver bucket, is cheap, and the glasses are plastic.
"Nice," I remark sarcastically.
She slaps my arm. "Pretend."
"Fine," I sigh, but when we're back in New Yo—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, you'll take me to the most expensive, most luxurious hotel, with the most outrageous food, where the servants wear silk and carry our things on diamond trays."
"Exactly," I nod. Happy she got my point.
"And I'll let you, too…"
"If?"
"If you stop talking and take me to bed."
Now that is an ultimatum I can get on board with. I carry her towards the large, yes, heart-shaped bed, and put her carefully down, remembering this time. "Your stitches?"
"Are fine and can be redone if need be. I don't want you to be careful or take it easy on me, Marito," she warns.
"Oksana," I pull her chin up so she has to look into my eyes to see how serious I am, "I'll do a lot of things for you. I'll kill anybody you ask me to, but I'm not going to hurt you. Until you're fully healed, I will be careful with you."
"Like that stopped you before."
"Before, you weren't officially my wife."
"Oh, you're such a bore," she pouts.
Bore? I'll show her.