Page 1 of Ivory Ashes

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VIVIANA

"Touch her again and I'll kill you."

The unfamiliar voice echoes through my bridal suite. I might be concussed, courtesy of my soon-to-be husband’s strong backhand across the face just a second ago, but is that the rumbling baritone of God? If so, excellent timing. The Big Man Upstairs hasn't done jack shit for me up until now, so I’d say some divine intervention in my shitshow of a life is long overdue.

I want to crack a swollen eye open and chance a peek at my savior, but lifting my face is what got me slapped for the third time this weekend, so I don’t.

The first was for not holding Trofim's hand during the rehearsal dinner. Then, when I mentioned that surely he’d hate to bruise my face the day before our wedding, he slapped me again for presuming to know what he does and doesn’t hate.

This third time was for… well, shits and giggles, I presume.

Nothing says “can’t wait to get hitched” like wearing the gaudiest signet ring in existence and slapping your fiancée around ‘til kingdom come. I probably have the Novikov Bratva crest indented in my left cheek by now. It’s fitting, since I’m being offered up to Trofim Novikov himself bright and early tomorrow morning. Might as well brand me like cattle tonight, before we make vows before God when the sun rises.

Not that Trofim gives a shit about vows before God. When we went to his cousin’s brother’s hairdresser’s… niece’s—well, hell if I know who it was for, but we went to someone's baptism together a few months ago, and I was positive Trofim would recoil in fear when the priest sprinkled holy water on the baby’s head and accidentally splashed some in our general direction.

I expected sulfurous smoke to pour out of his mouth. Maybe some Exorcist-style head spinning. Unfortunately, his head stayed facing forward, but I’ve been holding out hope he’ll burst into flames when we step up to the altar tomorrow.

Based on the booming voice coming from the doorway of my bridal suite, God might be a little ahead of schedule.

"Get away from her,” that voice snarls. “Now."

The words vibrate through my bones.

"The fuck…? Get the hell out of our room.” Trofim’s voice is whiskey-slurred, but his grip on the back of my robe is immovably solid.

That's the real cause of all of this. Trofim is a heartless bastard when he's sober. When he drinks, though, he's straight-up soulless. And right now, he's probably more alcohol than blood.

Maybe this new god of vengeance should be careful.

“This isn’t your room,” the deep voice corrects angrily. “It’s hers.”

I cringe and duck my head further. Don’t bring me into this! Maybe, if I make myself small enough, Trofim will forget I’m here.

Neck bowed, I look down at the floor and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored coffee table.

It’s enough to make me suck in a sharp breath. My eye is swollen. My cheek is as red as the parade of flags that have lined every inch of the road from the moment I met Trofim to now.

First, he’s a Taurus. I should have run for the hills the moment I made that little discovery.

Second, my father approved of Trofim. That in itself is the biggest red flag of them all.

As much as I wish it was because Daddy Dearest just didn’t know the horrible truth of my intended’s cruel and unusual ways, that’s not the case. My father was literally in the room for slap number one. He was actually, physically standing in the doorway right where Potential Savior #2 is standing now.

Except, instead of telling Trofim to back off and leave me alone in a soul-shuddering baritone, my father whispered in my ear—which was still ringing from Trofim’s slap, might I add—to “keep your head down and make him happy.”

In my father’s eyes, that’s all I am: a tool for others’ happiness.

Not mine. No, no, don’t be ridiculous—never mine.

I, Viviana Giordano, exist for his happiness. Whoever “he” may be in any given scenario. My father’s. Trofim’s. Any other man whose alliance might be of some value.

To my father, I’m a bartering chip who just so happens to have the blood of the Giordano mafia running through my veins.

And Trofim, by very specific design on my father’s part, just so happens to be the eldest son of the Novikov Bratva’s pakhan.

Tomorrow is the crime world’s equivalent of a royal wedding. Lighter on the fascinators, heavier on the bloodshed.

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