Chapter 29 #2
I breathed in, steadying myself.
"Then swear it. To me. To our baby."
Viktor lifted his hand and set it on my belly like it was sacred.
"I, Viktor Ivanov, swear on my life," he said, slow and deliberate. "From this day on, I'll keep every promise I make you. If I break them, I'll die ugly."
"That's enough." I slapped my hand over his mouth, panicked. "Don't say shit like that."
He smiled—relief, happiness, and this stupid, boyish satisfaction all tangled together.
"Then, Miss Woods," he said, taking my hand, "what's your answer?"
I stared at him, tears spilling again.
"Yes. You bastard."
Over the next few months, Viktor showed off his insane healing—honestly, it was more like some kind of sick, unfair body he'd been born with.
By the second week after the explosion, he'd turned the hospital suite into a tactical command center by force.
Yuri's death had blown the New York underworld wide open.
Families that had been twitching on the sidelines and what was left of the Council of Elders tried to snap back while Viktor was down.
They underestimated him.
Viktor sat in a wheelchair, choking down the bland, miserable nutrition soup I cooked for him, and issued purge orders through encrypted channels like he was ordering coffee. Dmitri ran it like a high-speed grinder, ripping out every last sleeper tied to Yuri and Matthew.
But while it happened, the underworld started whispering—because the tyrant's style had shifted in a way nobody could explain.
"Pakhan, about the weapons shipment at the Brooklyn docks," Dmitri said, standing in the luxury hospital room with a report. "Under the old rules, we'd have blown their warehouse."
"No." Viktor frowned, peeling an apple with one hand. "There's a community school next to that warehouse. An explosion would hit civilians. Hailey doesn't like innocent blood. Do it another way. Take their boss out alone. Clean."
Dmitri blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched like he didn't know whether to laugh or pray. He dropped his gaze. "Yes, Pakhan."
I sat on the sofa flipping through a pregnancy-and-baby magazine and rolled my eyes.
Yeah. That was Viktor's new rulebook.
He'd fully locked down New York's underground. He was still the same iron-fisted, terrifying mafia boss who didn't take no for an answer. But every deal, every shootout, every line he crossed had to stay clear of my red lines.
No human trafficking. No harm to innocent women and children. Ever.
The Council of Elders grumbled at first—until Viktor ripped out three bosses who tried to play obedient in public and disloyal in private. After that, the Bratva went dead quiet. People started saying, in low voices, that the real dictator of the Ivanov family wasn't Viktor at all.
It was the American woman with the baby bump.
As the months stacked up, my belly swelled like a balloon. And Viktor's nerves tightened right along with it.
After he got discharged, we moved back to the heavily fortified Long Island estate. He canceled anything he didn't need to show his face for and stayed glued to me like my shadow.
If I mentioned—half-asleep at midnight—that I wanted that tart frozen yogurt from the place in SoHo, he'd send an entire strike team in armored SUVs to bang on the shop owner's door.
If I bumped my foot on the sofa leg, he'd nearly go feral and almost chopped the expensive Italian antique furniture into firewood.
"Viktor Ivanov. If you keep staring at my stomach like that, I'm kicking you into the guest room."
One night, I woke up to his locked-on, end-of-the-world stare and sighed.
"He just kicked you," Viktor said, his big hand resting lightly on my belly, muscles tight. "Did he hurt you? Little bastard. When he gets out, I'll teach him a lesson."
"He's six months old," I said, laughing, and swatted his hand away. Then I curled into his broad, warm chest. "And the doctor says that's fetal movement. It means he's healthy."
He shifted immediately so I could settle more comfortably. Hands that used to hold nothing but guns and power wrapped around my thickening waist like I was glass.
"Hailey," he said in the dark, kissing my hair, voice low and soft.
"Yeah?"
"Our wedding. I've got it ready. Next month. On the top floor of the Group."
Early winter in Manhattan came cold and clean.
On the top floor of the Ivanov Group headquarters, the executive office and conference rooms—the spaces that used to make me shake—had been knocked open and rebuilt into a private sky garden, so luxurious it didn't even feel real.
Tens of thousands of white Ecuadorian roses covered the entire hall. Beyond the massive windows, New York's skyline glittered, alive and arrogant.
No media. No politicians. No business titans. Just the core of the family—and my only friend, Samantha.
In the dressing room, Samantha wore a bridesmaid dress and stood behind me, eyes wet as she adjusted my veil.
"Jesus. You look so beautiful it hurts," she said, sniffing and studying my reflection. "I have to admit it—the Russian brute has taste."
I looked at myself.
Viktor had flown in the best craftsmen from Paris. Three months of handwork. Soft French lace and silk satin that didn't hide my seven-month belly—it framed it, made me look like something radiant and dangerous, all at once.
"Sam... thank you for staying with me," I said, squeezing her hand.
"Don't make me cry. My makeup'll run," she said, laughing through it, and shoved the bouquet into my hands—baby's breath and white roses. "Go. Go conquer your tyrant."
When the orchestra began the slow, soaring wedding march, the heavy carved mahogany doors opened—Dmitri pulling them wide.
I drew in a breath and stepped onto the soft red carpet, walking toward the man waiting at the end.
Viktor wore a custom black suit, his bright blond hair slicked back perfectly. A white rose pinned to his chest. Every mafia leader in the room, every hard bastard who used to snarl at the world, stood in black and lowered their heads to me in one sharp, unified motion.
But I only saw Viktor.
The emperor of New York's underworld stood before the priest. The second his gaze hit me, his ice-blue eyes lit up—obsession and tenderness burning together like fire.
He stared like I was the only thing that existed. Like the rest of the world didn't deserve a single glance.
I reached him.
He didn't wait for the priest. He stepped forward and took my hands—tight, reverent, like he was holding something holy.
He was still the same violent, possessive man who'd locked me inside his world. But I knew the truth. In this steel fortress built from money and power, he'd already given me every scrap of softness he had.
And he'd handed over his soul with it.
"You're mine now, princess," he said under his breath—dominant, and so damn tender it hurt.
"Always have been," I said, smiling as I rose on my toes and met his kiss.