Page 45 of Pregnant By the Mafia Boss

“No. Fiona I’m not the monster you think I am. I just—I’m adjusting like you are.”

“You’ve been busyallthe time and unless you want me… for nighttime activities, you’re not available,” I tell him, feeling a little sad.

“Fiona, please. I’m sorry about being distant.Shit.I just… I wanted time. To figure everything out. I’ve been trying to keep you safe in other ways… showing you I care,” Ruslan expresses. “But I’m happy, and I want to be with you. To do things.”

The walls of poor communication are crumbling away, because Ruslan Utkin admitting he was overwhelmed by the baby is as good as him admitting he’s scared. Vulnerable like anyone else, and now I feel a little closer to him. “Okay,” I say softly as Ruslan stares at my mouth, parking the car. “It’s normal to have reservations, Ruslan. This is our first child. I’m not trying to starve the child on purpose.”

Ruslan nods, his hooded eyes still zoned in on my lips as we sit in the driveway together. “Iwantour baby Fiona, and for us to be a real family. I’m in, if you’re in,” he pleads, clinging to me. I gulp down my reservations, thinking the Bratva will always win out, until the next time business turns bad or I need protection.

“I don’t think I can be out, even if I want to, and I promise I’ll eat better too,” I tell him with a giggle, pointing to my stomach.”

He swipes his nose against my nose, cupping my face, his tongue diving deeper to tango with mine as we lose ourselves, letting the ocean of misplaced feelings rinse away, and as he pulls back, holding on to the nape of my neck, his eyes pressed shut, I think I might have misjudged him.

“Fiona, I would do anything for you and this baby. You just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Okay, it’s not all your fault. It’s mine too. I should eat better. Let’s hope I don’t spilt my wedding dress when I walk down the aisle,” I joke, not knowing what to do with all the feelings between us.

Ruslan smirks. “Fiona Anderson, soon to be Mrs. Utkin, you are one-of-a-kind, and I don’t care how you get down the aisle, only that you’re mine.”

Chapter Twenty-Two - Ruslan

I might not be big on all the old Soviet traditions of marriage, but some Russian traditions remain tried and true within the family. One of them being that Fiona and I are to be married inside a church—an orthodox church nonetheless. By holding the wedding at one of Chicago’s lesser known, but older churches with the beauty of ancient fresco arts painted on the ceiling, I feel as if I’m doing my family justice.

I listen intently to the elderly man officiating as the words echo back, and I repeat my vows. He’s also a long-time friend of the family. My hands are lightly holding on to Fiona’s, our sacred union being witnessed by select family members and friends. I smile, looking forward at the woman whom I’ve chosen to call my wife for better or worse. Luca Marino’s daughter, a brave, loyal, and sweet woman, who I only have eyes for. Her embroidered, sleeveless white dress with its intricate beads falls to the floor, clinging to Fiona’s curves, the dress specifically custom designed to her liking. Her shapely legs, make way for a demure split, and a bridal garter I can’t wait to get my hands on.

She’s a naturally beautiful woman, but today, there’s an extra special glow about her. Her makeup is flawless, further enhancing her beauty, and her pearlescent lipstick illuminates the same supple mouth I can’t wait to kiss.

I’m dressed in a formal charcoal suit with all the traditional colors of Russian Red for a tie, as are my two groomsmen—one of them Mark, the other Andrei back me up. They are the two men whom I trust the most in the Bratva, and I would die for them like I would my own family.

I didn’t want a big wedding with lots of fanfare; besides it would have taken too long to plan, and drawn too muchattention, leaving us an open target for our enemies in the city—and the Utkins have their fair share of them. Fiona’s friends Sophia and Rachael are her bridesmaids, and Fiona’s done a wonderful job selecting their dresses. This I allowed. After all, I forced her to marry me after finding out she was carrying our child in her belly.

I’m proud to make her my wife and more so for her to be the mother of my children to come. Her thick brunette locks are expertly pinned half-up, half-down, in a swirl of thick curls. Heat hits my face because the more I look at her, the more breathtaking she becomes.

Today, under the light streaming through the church’s skylight, her emerald eyes have an extra shimmer to them. It’s as if special stars are dazzling around her. Our eyes connect, and my world opens.Fuck. I want her.I tug at my tie a little, breaking into a smile and I’m pretty sure a cold sweat as the priest declares us man and wife.

“You may now kiss the bride!” he says enthusiastically as we end with the Russian tradition of linking an embroidered towel around our wrists, symbolizing an unbreakable union.

As the wedding music plays at our small intimate gathering, I dip to Fiona’s mouth, sealing the deal with a kiss, feeling euphoric about our future together.

“Mrs. Utkin. I can officially call you that now,” I tell her, licking my lips as she wipes the lipstick off them.

“Yes, I guess you can. Mr. and Mrs. Utkin. I think I can live with being called that,” she remarks, but there’s a hitch in her voice that leaves room for doubt to creep in, and the faraway look in her eyes, gives me the impression I might have lost her, even before we’ve taken our path into marriage.

Maybe she’s not as okay with our arrangement as I think she is.

I let the doubts go, wanting her and her friends to enjoy the day. Russians are known for their big celebrations, and today with its stellar weather conditions are no exception. Soon after all the paperwork is signed, we all make our way to the wedding reception hall, my mother, cousins, aunts, and grandparents present and congratulating us. From Fiona’s side her mother is in attendance, and I can see where Fiona gains her poise and grace from. She pulls me aside before the wedding reception gets into full swing.

“Mind if I have a word with you, Ruslan?” she asks politely. I nod, wanting her to know I’m going to take care of her daughter.

“Sure, I wanted to take the chance to talk to you anyway. It’s nice to meet you.”

She holds my gaze, a silent contempt hanging in the balance. “I know what you are,” she says quietly, the five-foot-five woman, discombobulating me.

Coughing, I look into her cold, sharp eyes. I level with her, not wanting to sugarcoat anything. “I’m glad you do; then we don’t have to play the game of false pretenses.”

“That’s a good start. You have many similar traits to my late husband, Luca, but there’s one difference between our union and yours,” she points out as I swallow the thick lump in my throat, unsure of what she’s about to say next.

“What’s that?”

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