Chapter 13 – Sebastian
I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this.
Not the coldness. Not the silence stretches tight between us like a wire ready to snap.
Hours have passed since morning, and Sienna is nothing like the woman from last night. That woman had heat in her eyes. Fire in her touch. This one is polished, distant, lost in control so complete it unsettles me.
She slipped out of my arms at dawn like I was something toxic. No good morning. No glance back. Just cool efficiency as she went about her routine as if nothing had happened between us. As if she hadn’t been pressed against me only hours earlier, breathing my name into the dark.
Breakfast was worse. She sat across from me, elegant and quiet, answering my questions with clipped, polite responses. No warmth. No edge. Just absence. I’ve faced enemies who gave me more to work with.
Now it’s afternoon, and we’re preparing to leave for the private post-wedding dinner at Dimitri’s estate.
I’m already dressed when I watch her move through the room, calm and deliberate. She stops at the mirror and applies red lipstick—the exact shade that twists something low and dangerous in my gut. She doesn’t look at me while she does it. She doesn’t need to.
“You’re quiet,” I say finally.
She caps the lipstick and meets my gaze in the mirror. “I don’t see the need for conversation.”
That stings more than it should.
It hits harder than it should.
“Why not?” I ask. “We’re married, aren’t we?”
She laughs softly, like I’ve said something mildly amusing. “And so what?”
That shuts me up.
She turns and walks into the closet, hips swaying with deliberate ease, like she knows exactly where my eyes are and doesn’t care. When she comes back out, I forget how to breathe.
The red gown clings to her in all the right places—skimming her waist, baring her legs, daring anyone to look away. She’s lethal in it. Beautiful and aware of it, which somehow makes it worse.
She faces the mirror again, lifting her hands to her hair. That red, fiery hair. My mind flashes to last night—my hands tangled in it, her breath uneven against my skin—and I have to clench my jaw.
Hell.
This woman is going to ruin me.
When she’s satisfied, she slips on her shoes, picks up her bag, and finally turns to face me.
“You ready?”
I release a slow breath, already exhausted, and the evening hasn’t even started.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure I am.
I leave the room. She follows.
And as we walk out together, perfectly composed, perfectly distant, one thought lodges itself deep in my chest:
If this is what being married to Sienna Roth feels like after one night….
I’m in far more trouble than I ever planned for.
By the time we reach the foyer, Marko is already waiting. He straightens when he sees us and gives a polite nod.
“Sienna, you look radiant,” he says, genuine admiration in his voice.
To my irritation, Sienna rewards him with a slow, devastating smile. “And you look handsome,” she replies. “Nice suit.”
Marko pretends to look down at himself. “This old thing?”
“Oh,” she says lightly, eyes flicking over him, “then it must be the body.”
They both laugh.
I feel my jaw tighten. Hard.
Just as I’m about to tell Marko to focus on his job, he turns to me, professionalism snapping back into place. “The car is waiting.”
Moments later, we’re inside the vehicle, the door shutting with a solid thud as Marko pulls out of the compound.
The silence returns immediately.
Sienna sits at the far edge of the seat, posture perfect, gaze fixed on the window like I’m not even here. Like my presence is something she has to tolerate rather than acknowledge.
I’m pissed.
After last night—after the heat, the way she fit against me, the way she didn’t push me away—I’d expected something to shift. A crack in the ice. A truce. Something.
Instead, she’s colder than ever.
I glance at her, at the elegant line of her neck, the calm set of her face, and realize with a sharp twist of frustration that whatever happened between us in that bed meant nothing to her.
Or worse.
It meant exactly what she wanted it to mean.
And that thought sits heavy in my chest as the car carries us toward my family, toward another performance, toward the celebration of a marriage that’s already starting to feel like a battlefield.
By the time we arrive at Dimitri’s mansion, the sun has dipped low, washing the stone facade in warm amber light. The place looks calm. Welcoming. Like nothing inside it could possibly go wrong.
Vivian is the first to greet us.
“Sienna,” she says warmly, pulling her into a hug without hesitation. It’s real affection—unforced, uncalculated. Then she turns to me with a bright smile. “You two look radiant.”
Radiant.
I almost laugh.
We look like two people smiling through smoke, holding it together while everything inside us burns.
Sienna accepts the compliment with ease, returning Vivian’s hug, her posture relaxed in a way it hasn’t been all day. She even smiles, an actual one, not the polite curve she’s been giving me since morning.
Vivian loops her arm through Sienna’s and starts guiding her inside, already chatting about the dinner, the guests, how long Dimitri insisted on the seating arrangement. I follow a step behind, watching the way Sienna listens, nods, responds—present, charming, alive.
Just not with me.
The doors close behind us, sealing us into another room full of Rusnaks, expectations, and unspoken scrutiny. The air feels heavier in here, thick with observation and quiet calculation.
This is my family’s world.
And Sienna is walking into it like she was born into it.
When we reach the base of the stairway in the foyer, Vivian turns to me.
“Sebastian, the boys are upstairs,” she says lightly. “The table isn’t set yet.”
I nod, already moving. Anything to put distance between myself and Sienna’s silence.
I jog up the stairs two at a time. The hallway upstairs is quiet, thick with that familiar stillness. As I get closer to Dimitri’s study, the quiet breaks. Laughter. Low voices. The clink of glass against glass.
I stop outside the door and take a breath.
Then I push it open.
“I thought this was my wedding dinner,” I say dryly. “Why did the party start without me?”
My brothers turn as one. The room erupts.
“Sebastian!”
“About time!”
“Married man finally shows up!”
Roman is already on his feet, grinning as he presses a vodka tumbler into my hand. I knock it back in one go and shove the glass toward him.
“Pour another.”
He laughs and does exactly that.
“Sebastian,” Lev calls.
I turn toward him. He doesn’t smile. Instead, he nods toward the far end of the table.
I follow his gaze.
And freeze.
The man sitting there rises slowly, calm and potent. Tall. Ash-blond hair. Eyes sharp enough to cut through bone. I’ve not seen him in person in a long time, almost three decades, but recognition hits me instantly, visceral and unmistakable.
Konstantin Rusnak.
My brother.
The ghost. He’s even more secretive and elusive than I am.
He left the States when he was ten and never came back. Zurich became his base. Europe his playground. Over the years, he faded from family dinners, then from calls, then from everything—until he became more rumor than relative.
No one really knows Konstantin. Not fully.
Officially, he’s an intelligence architect.
Unofficially, he operates in the gray spaces—between law enforcement and espionage, cyber-warfare and Bratva politics. A man who trades in information the way others trade currency.
Back when I was still deep in the illegal art world—when forgery and shadow deals were my daily language—Konstantin was the one who fed me information no one else could touch.
Infallible. Precise. Dangerous.
And now he’s here.
At my wedding dinner.
Watching me with a knowing half-smile. He raises his glass in my direction and knocks it back.
“Happy married life, brother.”
I raise mine. “I don’t believe you flew in for my wedding. So what brings you to town?”
“Business.”
Of course.
I don’t push. With Konstantin, pushing only tells him what you’re afraid of.
“It’s good to see you,” I say instead.
He gives a short nod. Nothing more.
I glance around the room. “Where are Lukin and Adrian?”
Kaz answers, already pouring himself another drink. “Mykonos. Official business.”
Roman butts into the conversation. “Marseille numbers came in.”
Lev looks up from his phone. “And?”
Roman lifts his glass. “Up twenty-three percent. Clean transfers. No delays.”
Dimitri lets out a low whistle. “I told you that the port manager would fold.”
“He didn’t fold,” I say. “He negotiated.”
Roman chuckles. “That’s what they all call it.”
Lev taps his phone and turns the screen toward us. “Eastern corridor exceeded projections too. Riga and Gdańsk both cleared ahead of schedule.”
“Good,” I say. “That means we can expand before summer.”
Kaz nods. “Already in motion. Warehouses are secured. Staff vetted.”
Roman raises an eyebrow. “Vetted by who?”
“By people who enjoy breathing,” Kaz replies.
Laughter rolls around the room. I raise my glass again. “To expansion.”
“To dominance,” Kaz adds.
“To staying untouchable,” Roman finishes.
Glasses clink.
Across the table, Konstantin watches us over the rim of his tumbler with a smile on his face.
There’s a knock at the door.
A staff member peeks in, deferential. “Dinner is served.”
Chairs scrape softly as we rise. We move downstairs together, the mood shifting from strategy to ceremony. The dining room is already alive when we enter—warm light, polished wood, low laughter. The women are gathered around the table, mid-conversation.
Sienna stands out immediately.
She looks…at ease.
Relaxed. Engaged. Laughing softly at something Sasha says. For a brief, irrational second, it irritates me. That she fits here so easily. That she looks like she belongs.
Konstantin takes the seat at the far end of the table without a word, settling in like he’s always been there.