Chapter 38 Nikolai
NIKOLAI
Istand at the makeshift altar in The Golden Lion's private dining room, my hands clasped behind my back to hide the way my fingers want to curl into fists.
The space has been transformed with white flowers and candles that cast soft light across the dark wood paneling, but no amount of decoration can disguise what this really is.
A transaction. A cage wrapped in silk and called a celebration.
The door opens, and Aria appears.
My breath catches despite everything, despite the wall of ice that's been building between us since I demanded proof of what I should simply believe.
She wears a simple cream dress that flows over the subtle curve of her stomach, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck.
Beautiful. Devastating. And absolutely miserable.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I watch her force her expression into something neutral, something acceptable for the witnesses.
The effort it costs her is visible in the tightness around her mouth, the way her hands grip the small bouquet of white roses like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
Self-loathing burns through my chest, acid eating away at whatever's left of my conscience.
Lara Utkina sits in the front row, her platinum blonde hair swept into that signature chignon, her pale blue eyes missing nothing as they assess us both.
The other Bratva wives flank her like a jury, their expressions ranging from sympathetic to calculating.
They know what this is. They've all made similar bargains, trading freedom for protection, love for survival.
My captains line the back wall, their faces carefully blank, but I feel the weight of their assessment like a physical pressure against my skin.
They're cataloging every detail, measuring whether their Pakhan has gone soft, whether sentiment has made me weak.
The photographs from the island already planted seeds of doubt.
This wedding, rushed and obviously forced, will either silence the whispers or confirm their worst fears.
Aria walks toward me with her chin lifted in that defiant way I've come to recognize, each step measured and deliberate. No one gives her away. She comes alone, as she's done everything in her life, and something in my chest cracks at the symbolism.
When she reaches me, I extend my hand. She stares at it for a heartbeat too long before placing her fingers in mine. Her skin is cold despite the warmth of the room, and I feel the tremor running through her body that she's trying so hard to hide.
The officiant begins speaking in Russian, the traditional words I've heard at a dozen Bratva weddings.
I respond automatically, my voice steady even as my mind screams that this is wrong, that I'm destroying the one good thing that's happened to me in twenty years.
When it's Aria's turn, her voice comes out barely above a whisper, and I have to strain to hear her repeat the vows that bind her to me.
"And do you, Aria Levin, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The pause stretches too long. I feel every eye in the room lock onto her, waiting, judging. Her fingers tighten around mine, and when she finally speaks, the words sound like surrender.
"I do."
The officiant pronounces us married, and I cup Aria's jaw with my free hand, tilting her face up to mine.
Her dark eyes hold mine with barely concealed misery, and I see my own self-loathing reflected back at me.
I kiss her anyway, trying to pour apology and promise into the contact, but her lips remain rigid against mine.
Her body doesn't soften, doesn't yield, doesn't respond with any of the heat I've come to crave.
When I pull back, she's already looking away.
The reception unfolds with the efficiency of a military operation.
Cyril orchestrated everything, transforming the main dining room into something that almost looks festive.
More captains and their families fill the space, their voices a low rumble of Russian and English as they toast our union with expensive vodka and Armenian cognac.
Servers circulate with trays of food I can't taste, and music plays from speakers I don't remember approving.
Aria moves through it all like a ghost, accepting congratulations with that same forced smile that never reaches her eyes. I watch her from across the room, my new wife who looks like a prisoner at her own wedding, and feel something fundamental shift in my chest.
This isn't what I wanted. Not like this.
"She's beautiful," Viktor says, appearing at my elbow with a glass of vodka. His eyes track Aria's movement through the crowd with an assessment that makes my jaw tighten. "You're a lucky man."
"Yes." The word comes out clipped, final.
"Congratulations, Boss." One of my younger captains approaches, his grin genuine. "She's got fire. I like that."
I accept his handshake, noting the way his gaze lingers on Aria with appreciation that borders on inappropriate. "Enjoy the party."
The message in my tone is clear. Look, but never touch. He nods quickly and retreats, and I return my attention to my wife.
She's talking to Lara now, the older woman's hand resting on Aria's arm in a gesture that looks almost maternal. Whatever Lara says makes Aria's expression soften fractionally, and I feel a surge of gratitude toward the woman who's taken it upon herself to guide Aria through this world.
"You made the right choice." Cyril materializes beside me, his gray eyes tracking the same scene. "She'll adjust."
"Will she?" I drain my vodka, the burn doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. "Or will she just learn to hide how much she hates me?"
Cyril doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
The evening drags on, each minute feeling like an hour.
I make the rounds, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions about the rushed timeline with carefully crafted lies about not wanting to wait.
Some believe me. Others exchange knowing glances that suggest they've heard about the paternity test demand, about the doubt I couldn't suppress.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I cross to where Aria stands near the windows, her hand resting protectively on her stomach, her gaze fixed on something outside I can't see.
"Dance with me," I say, extending my hand.
She turns slowly, and the exhaustion etched into her features makes guilt twist like a knife between my ribs. "I'm tired, Nikolai."
"Please." The word comes out rougher than intended. "One dance. Then I'll take you home."
Home. The word feels wrong, like I'm claiming something that isn't mine to claim. But she places her hand in mine anyway, and I lead her to the small cleared space that serves as a dance floor.
The music shifts to something slower, and I pull her against me, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her against my chest. She's stiff in my arms, her body held at a careful distance, and I feel the space between us like a physical wound.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her temple, my accent thickening with emotion I can't suppress.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't respond, just sways with me in silence while the music plays and our guests watch with varying degrees of interest.
"I want to fix this," I continue, my voice dropping to something only she can hear. "Tell me how to fix this."
"I don't know if you can." Her words are barely audible over the music.
The honesty cuts deeper than any blade. I tighten my hold on her, needing to feel her solid and real against me.
The song ends, and Aria steps back, putting distance between us that feels insurmountable. "I need some air."
I watch her walk toward the private courtyard, every instinct screaming at me to follow, but Cyril's hand on my shoulder stops me.
"Give her space," he says quietly. "She needs to process."
Ten minutes later, I spot Cyril at the bar. My second-in-command's expression is carefully neutral, but I see the question lurking beneath.
"I need you to do something," I say, my voice dropping to something cold and absolute.
"Anything, Boss."
"Cancel the paternity test."
Cyril's gray eyes widen with genuine shock, the first time I've seen him truly surprised in years. "Boss, the council expects—"
"I don't care what the council expects." The words come out harsher than intended. "The child is mine. Anyone who questions it answers to me personally. Make sure that message is clear."
He studies me for a long moment, and I see him cataloging the implications of this decision.
"You're sure about this?" His voice is carefully neutral.
"Yes." No hesitation. No doubt. "She saved my life, Cyril. She jumped into the ocean when she could have let me drown. She's carrying my child, my miracle. I won't insult her by demanding proof of what is obvious."
Something shifts in his expression, something that might be approval or might be concern. "The captains will talk."
"Let them talk." I straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of this decision settle into my bones. "If they have a problem with that, they can challenge me directly."
Cyril nods once, sharp and final. "I'll handle it."
I leave him at the bar and make my way through the crowd toward the courtyard where Aria disappeared. I need to tell her, need to see her face when she realizes I'm choosing her over the empire's doubts. My hand is on the door when Cyril appears at my elbow, his phone extended, his expression grim.
"We have a problem."
I take the phone, my jaw tightening as I read the message on the screen. My tech specialist's words are brief and devastating.
Identified the blackmailer. Name: Marcus Webb. Former photojournalist, wanted by Interpol for fraud and extortion. Currently hiding from international law enforcement. He's demanding two million dollars or the remaining photos go public.