Page 15 of Brutal Vows

I drag in a breath and heave out a sigh as Yuri walks off to fetch my bride. Petrov waits at the door, staring down the corridor. Matteo and I share glances, but he seems calm, having dealt with Petrov before.

Time stretches, testing my patience. But I’m a man used to delayed gratification and I know how to take my time with a woman. If Milana Petrova wants to start playing games, edging me, I’m so ready for it. And she’s going to lose.

Still, I heave out a strained breath, and moments later, the sweet sound of girlish chatter finally echoes toward us. Yuri walks in, stooping with his hands on each of the girls’ backs to guide them as they enthusiastically toss rose petals on the floor.

I want to smile, but my heart is being twisted like a rag. This is one thing I’ll never have. Precious girls of my own. And family and a place to belong—exactly what Gabriella also desperately needs. At least one of us will live that life.

The girls have haloes of blond curls and the bluest eyes as they look up and the light falls just right. Peas in a pod, almost twins like me and Stephano, if it weren’t for the obvious age difference.

Hell, to think we missed out on this cuteness with Gabriella’s separation from our family. We never got to see her at this age, and the thought squeezes my throat. I’m so taken by the girls’ white dresses and pink bouquets, I fail to look up, until Petrov clears his throat. My eyes catch the movement and follow his gaze. A woman—my bride—has paused in the shadow of the corridor.

A shudder runs through me as my breathing stalls.

Black…she’s wearing black.

Dark as night. Velvet with its seductive luster. The color of death.

Her eyes seem filled with dread, but then she blinks, and a mask slips over her face.

She steps up and into the light. There’s no farewell kiss between brother and sister, no formal handing over from one family to the next. Instead, she sweeps her long dark tresses over her shoulder and looks up to meet my gaze with a look that could punch a man in the gut.

And this one does, basically winding me.

It’s her!

The woman in the photos. Just a dream. A secret obsession.

My downfall.

Petrov’s Russian mistress.

She isn’t his mistress at all but his sister. His much younger, breathtakingly beautiful sister…and my bride⁠—

And she’s making her way toward me, unflinching, haughtily cold, each step closer a calculated dare for me to drop my gaze and bow to her.

My heart thumps in my chest, heat spreading down my back at this twist, but I meet her gaze head on, reading disdain in her eyes. So that’s how it’s going to be, but then again, what’s new? I’m so used to being judged before I even say a word. I stand taller, taking in the whole of her now that the initial shock has passed.

Jesus, it’s her, but it’s also not. She’s changed. It shows in the bitter pull of her mouth, in the exhaustion in her eyes which she can’t hide with makeup. And then in that defiant tilt of her chin.

Her black dress screams to the world that she doesn’t want this marriage, that she’s mourning someone else, someone she’s loved and probably still loves—the man who took that video of her…the photos, the man who knows her intimately. For now, he is an unsolved mystery. It isn’t Petrov, and I suppress a frustrated growl. I’ll still find out who the fucker is, because I want to kill him, but first, I want to fist his throat in rage, screaming into his face that he let her go. He knows and has touched every last dip and valley of her body, every last intimate curve and fold, every last secret. She loves him. Why the fuck didn’t he marry her when he had the chance? If they were already married, she wouldn’t be here, leveling the fucking Mafia-Bratva playing field.

Though right now, all I want is to fix her attitude for her, ignore her demeaning dress, just go fuck this shit and kiss her— But then she blinks and I catch the shine in her eyes. She’s on the verge of tears, holding it together by a thread.

And suddenly, I see myself in her shoes. Dragged here to marry a stranger, ripped from and barred from the person she really loves. Forced to live with and sleep with someone who will never be him. The look in her eyes when she woke up and stared into the camera—stared at him…she’ll never look at me like that.

It hurts like a motherfucker. This is now my reality and what a fucking raw deal—for both of us.

Inwardly, I pull myself together, poker face plastered on as I force a smile, trying to keep my cool. I cock my brow in mock salute but brace myself as Milana sidles up to me, teeth bared in a grimace. There’s no touch; I don’t reach for her hand to comfort her. She looks ready to slap me, and if she does, what the fuck do I actually do? In front of her brother? Yuri? In front of Matteo?

I choose peace so turn to the officiant, ignoring her. Let the fangs come out where I can deal with them in private. At the apartment. Maybe even earlier. On the yacht. It’s just the never-ending shit storm that is my life, but it’s penetrating the sanctuary of my home, my inner fucking peace.

Fuck the Mafia. This is why I needed to get out. At some point, all this shit comes home to roost. Supposedly in my bed. Lucky Luca.

The officiant gets going, and his words wash over me. All I hear is my name, the vows drilling into my core as I repeat them: to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, until death do us part.

I do.

Milana does the same, her voice soft but clear, going through the motions on autopilot. Rings come into view, nestling in Matteo’s palm. I reach for Milana’s hand, her fingers as graceful and slender as I remember from the video, but now I also know they are talented beyond any skill I have.