Page 43 of Arranged Mafia Marriage

We spend the rest of the flight talking, laughing, and making love. As we begin our descent back into the city, I hold Felicity close, marveling at how lucky I am. “I have something for you,” I say, reaching into the nightstand by the bed. I’m sure my personal shopper delivered it before takeoff once I sent her an idea of what I wanted.

Felicity watches curiously as I pull out a small velvet box. She blinks as I open it, revealing a stunning diamond ring. “But we’re already married,” she says, confused.

I take the ring out and slide it onto her finger. “We are, but our first wedding was rushed, out of necessity, and there was no real proposal. This is me asking you, Felicity Pimaslov, if you’ll marry me again. This time, with all our friends and family present. A real celebration of our love.”

Tears spill down Felicity’s cheeks as she nods. “I don’t need a new wedding, but I would love a fresh start.”

As the plane touches down, I kiss my wife. Our love started as an arrangement, but it’s become something so much more. Something unbreakable, and I might not deserve it, but I’ll fight until my last breath to preserve it.

19

Felicity

Afew nights later, the glittering lights of Atlantic City dazzle my eyes as Kiril and I step out of the limousine that met us at the airstrip. I’ve never been here before, and the energy of the place is electrifying. Kiril’s hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance of a luxurious casino.

“Ready for your first high-stakes poker game, darling?” he asks with amusement.

I nod, smoothing down my form-fitting black dress. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” I’ve never played poker but spent the last few days learning everything I could. It doesn’t seem like enough when going against other members of thebratvaextended network. “Remind me again why we’re doing this?”

“It’s tradition,” he says as we enter the opulent lobby. “Everyone gathers once a year for this game. It’s part business, part pleasure.”

“Right,” I say with a thin smile. “Mostly business this time, I assume.”

He shrugs. “I guess we’ll see where the night takes us.”

We’re led to a private room, where several well-dressed men and women are already mingling. The air is thick with cigar smoke and the clink of crystal glasses. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, and I snag two flutes, handing one to Kiril. I won’t be drinking mine since I’m pregnant, but it gives me something to do with my hands.

“Kiril.” A booming voice calls out. A large man with a salt-and-pepper beard approaches us, clapping Kiril on the back. “Good to see you, my friend, and who is this lovely creature?”

Kiril’s arm wraps possessively around my waist. “Dmitri, meet my wife, Felicity.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Wife? When did this happen?”

“Recently,” I interject, offering my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dmitri.”

He takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “The pleasure is all mine. Kiril is a lucky man.”

As we chat with Dmitri, I notice a waiter hovering nearby, looking nervously around the room. Something about his behavior seems off, reminding me of the time I was almost strangled to death, but before I can dwell on it, we’re approached by another couple.

“Ah, Kiril,” says the woman, her voice rich and commanding, “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

I’m surprised to see that she’s clearly one of the leaders here. Her presence is intimidating, yet there’s a grace to her movements that speaks of years of experience in this world.

“Oksana.” Kiril greets her with a nod. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Felicity.”

Oksana’s sharp gaze assesses me. “A new player in our little game, I see. Tell me, Felicity, do you know how to play poker?”

I smile, not looking away. “I’ve been known to hold my own in a game or two.” On my PC and phone, but I omit that part.

She laughs, a sound like smooth whiskey. “I like her, Kiril. She’s got spirit.”

The hours slip by like silk across skin, and I drift from one group to another, with the background soundtrack a low hum of conversation punctuated by the clink of crystal glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. The opulent ballroom seems to shrink as I navigate its gilded expanse, each step a calculated dance through a minefield of alliances and the occasional rivalry.

“So, Mrs. Pimaslov,” asks a portly manwith a walrus mustache as he gets closer, his breath heavy with the scent of cigars and vodka, “How are you finding our little gathering?”

I smile. “Absolutely fascinating,” I say, careful to keep my tone light and unassuming. “The stories I’ve heard tonight could fill a book.”

His wife, a statuesque blonde draped in emeralds, arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Oh? And what stories might those be, my dear?”

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