Page 12 of Brutal Vows

Don Giuliano Scalera might have been my father, but I’m not going to be that asshole. Our mom’s life was hell, and her marriage to him started just like this one. Strangers meeting at the altar.

I’m playing by my rules, and they are exactly the opposite to Don Scalera’s playbook. This marriage comes with zero expectations in the sex department. The last thing I need is for her to be petrified of me, afraid I’ll force myself on her because it’s my ‘right’ as her husband, or use her in the cruelest way like the Don did with Mom, forcing her to have baby after baby until her body gave out. No babies will come from this marriage—none at all.

But what if she wants⁠—

Nope. Not going there.

“You’re solid, man, you’re going to be fine.” Benedict grips my shoulder and then lets go. “Grab a beer with your bros? We haven’t even arranged a bachelor’s for you.”

“Ha! The biggest fuckup in this whole line-up of fuckups! No bachelors,” I joke. “Don’t tell me this wedding caught you off guard, Benny.”

He chuckles. “Steph isn’t even here for it⁠—”

“Yeah.” That sucks, but at least the bride won’t get confused on her first day trying to figure out who she married. “Petrov’s rules are extreme, but let’s toe the line.” The last thing I want is for something else to go wrong, an accidental bullet in someone’s head, that will lead to Benedict being pulled into something as similarly messed-up as this wedding. “One beer. I still need to check on the biking gear tonight.”

The next morning, Matteo and I are landing at Long Island MacArthur Airport. Petrov will let us know where to go once we arrive, and fuck, it’s annoying me. With triple the amount of admin to work around his whims, now we have three teams on the ground trying to hit the mystery venue for security checks and balances. Plus I have my motorcycle that needs delivering. I wanted something of me at this wedding.

“I’m too fucking sober for this,” Matteo says as soon as we taxi down the landing strip to our parking bay. He shoots me a glance. “You?”

“I’m okay.” I like a clear head. Drinking has never solved any problems, but he raises a hand to the air steward and indicates two whiskeys. “We just landed, Matty.”

“Party’s starting,” he says with a shrug as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “And we don’t know how warm and inviting this wedding is going to be.”

I roll my eyes, but when the air steward comes over with two tumblers each with a double shot of whiskey, no ice, I toast with him. “To new alliances.”

“And new beginnings.”

Ha. So much for my fresh start. It was meant to be with my bike and the open road, weeks at sea on my yacht, finally at peace, but we never even had that conversation.

I toss back my whiskey, and it hits my stomach in a satisfying burning whirl. Now I want to loosen my tie and strip off my jacket, but I look as if I strolled out of some wedding magazine as Groom of the Year. I don’t know what it is, but I want to put my best foot forward, impress by any means possible.

During a deep dive on several music apps, I stumbled on two more studio recordings by an M. Petrova playing the piano, both from three years ago. They made me feel inadequate. Fuck knows why, because I have…talents. But all my business successes have always been propped up by Il Consiglio, at least initially. Maybe if I start my own venture now, I’d be clued up enough not to fuck it up, though it doesn’t matter. What do I actually have to offer this woman? There’s no way I measure up to her if you take sex out of the equation.

By the time we descend the jet’s stairs to the tarmac, our vehicle is already waiting for us.

“Still no word from Petrov?” It’s frustrating to be toyed with like this.

“I let him know we’ve landed.”

“Hurry up and wait,” I grunt, plucking open the back passenger door and slide onto the cream leather seat.

Matteo gets in on the other side as his phone pings. He swipes open a message. “We have a venue. Thank fuck. This guy’s so neurotic.”

“We’re hardly better on a bad day.” This is life in organized crime. You can’t afford to let your guard down.

He passes the directions to me and then to the driver.

“Forty minutes, boss,” the man says.

I pull out my phone to send a cluster of messages to everybody involved in this farce to get into their positions now that we have an address. Then I drop my head back with a groan. “Let’s go meet my bride.”

7

MILANA

Early this morning, I sat with Papa for a long time, my heart breaking. It’s my wedding day, and I have no idea if I’ll see him again. I’ll be in my husband’s care, and who knows what type of man Luca Scalera is going to turn out to be. I could be exchanging one prison for another. I have no way of knowing, yet this is a gamble I have to take. Ivan will never set me free, not with what happened with Dimitri and the uncertainty still hanging over the Petrov Bratva. I have to take my chances elsewhere. Papa could pass away in the dead of night, and I’d be too far away to make it in time to say goodbye. But I have to do this. And this moment? This is it. The last time I’m probably seeing him.

I’m crying when I give him a last kiss on his forehead.