Page 3 of Mafia King's Bride

“And now,” the priest announces, “you may kiss the bride.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with finality. I stand frozen, my body stiff, waiting for him to move. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, Dmitri reaches out, lifting my veil.

I hold my breath as his fingers graze my skin, his touch unexpectedly gentle. He steps closer, and I can feel the warmth of his body, the clean, masculine scent filling the space between us.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over my lips, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if he’s going to stop. If he’ll pull away and leave this moment unfinished.

But he doesn’t.

His lips brush against mine—a soft, barely-there touch, yet it ignites something strange and unwelcome inside me. It’s a simple kiss, brief and restrained, but my heart is pounding in my chest, my pulse thrumming loudly in my ears. A flicker of heat surges through me, confusing and unwanted.

He pulls away before I can process the feeling, and the room erupts in applause. My hands are trembling as I clasp them together, trying to hold on to something, anything, that makes sense. I glance at my father, watching him wipe a tear from his cheek, but all I can think about is the ghost of Dmitri’s lips on mine.

As we step outside the chapel, Dmitri’s hand slips from mine.

“I’ll see you at the reception,” he says, his voice detached. “There are things I need to attend to.”

Without waiting for my response, he turns and walks away, his broad back disappearing into the crowd.

I stand there, watching him go, swallowing down the knot of anger and hurt that rises in my throat. The applause still rings in my ears, but all I feel is emptiness. The tears burn behind my eyes, but I force them back, smiling for the crowd as they spill out of the church.

Married.

To a man who couldn’t even stay by my side after the ceremony.

TWO

DMITRI

“Mr. Pavlov is waiting in your office,” Jakob, my secretary, says as I stride in.

I nod, not breaking pace, and push open the door.

Igor Pavlov, thepakhanof one of the New Jersey Bratvas, stands as soon as he sees me. His massive hand stretches out, and I grasp it firmly. “Orlov,” he greets me with a smirk. “You could’ve scheduled this for another time.”

“Why would I?” I drop his hand and move behind my desk, letting my briefcase hit the floor with a thud.

He shrugs, watching me with sharp, calculating eyes. “You just got married. Figured you’d be on your honeymoon. Or are the rumors true?”

I arch an eyebrow, leaning back in my chair. “Rumors?”

Before he can answer, there’s a knock. The door swings open, and Alexey steps in, anotherpakhan,with a reputation as unpredictable as his temper. He doesn’t bother with formalities, taking a seat next to Igor like he owns the place.

“Roman won’t be joining us,” Alexey informs us, lighting a cigar with a flick of his lighter. “He’s dealing with some...unpleasantness.”

I loosen my tie, ignoring the blatant disrespect. This meeting is delicate. Patience is key. For now.

“I trust you will relay my message to him,” I say coldly. “Let’s get this started.”

Alexey takes a slow drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke in a deliberate circle. I could snap his neck for the sheer insolence, but today’s not the day. No, today requires tact. We’re here to talk about power. Mine, to be exact.

I reach into my drawer, pull out a document, and slap it onto the desk. “Here’s a list of the territories our organizations control. It’s extensive, as you both know. But I’m here to propose an alliance.”

Igor’s frown deepens and Alexey’s eyes narrow.

“An alliance?” Igor leans forward, disbelief etched on his face. “Why wouldyouwant that?”

Alexey nods, puffing on his cigar, his expression skeptical. “You’ve got more than all of us combined. More money. More connections. Hell, you came to this country later than we did and still outran us. Why do you need us?”

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