Page 2 of Mafia King's Bride

An hour later, I sit in front of the mirror, my hair twisted into a blooming low bun, my face smoothed and sculpted by layers of makeup. The woman staring back at me is a stranger—her lips too perfect, her eyes too bright, her expression too composed. It’s as if I’m looking at a mask, rather than a person.

The makeup artist gently dabs beneath my eye with a small brush, her movements practiced and gentle. My eyelids flutter closed, grateful for the brief reprieve from staring at the stranger I’ve become.

“Do you have allergies?” she asks, her voice laced with concern.

“No. Why?” I reply, even though I already know the answer.

“You’re teary,” she explains, frowning a little as she inspects her work.

I raise a hand instinctively to touch my face but catch myself just in time, letting my arm drop back to my lap. “I’m sorry.”

She gives me a reassuring smile in the mirror. “It’s okay. Brides cry all the time. It’s an emotional day.” She pauses, applying more powder under my eyes. “Don’t worry, the mascara is waterproof. It won’t run when you see your husband.”

I don’t correct her or tell her I’m not a typical emotional bride. It’s the dread pressing down on me like a stone, threatening to crack me open.

I just want this wedding to be over.

She brushes the last bit of powder away. “He’s quite the catch, you know. Your fiancé.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He was on the cover ofMost Wanted Bachelorslast month. And now he’s getting married to you.”

Her eyes gleam with something—envy, maybe admiration. Either way, it twists in my gut like a knife. If only I could hand him over to her, let her take my place.

“Thank you,” I murmur, unsure of what else to say.

She hesitates, biting her lip before asking, “Was it love at first sight?”

Love. The word tastes like ash in my mouth.

I almost laugh—an empty, bitter sound—but I hold it in. How could anyone think love had anything to do with this? Why would I love a man who is marrying me only to punish my father?

Dmitri Orlov. Heir to the Orlov empire. To the outside world, he’s a businessman, the golden boy gracing magazine covers, his every move followed by cameras and admirers. But to those of us who know him—truly know him—he’s thepakhan. A man feared for his ruthlessness, a man who crushes his enemies without blinking.

The makeup artist doesn’t understand. She could never.

I let the silence stretch, and she takes my pause for confirmation, a dreamy smile spreading across her face. “I knew it,” she says, nodding as if she’s solved some great mystery. “With men like that, it’s impossible not to fall in love with them. The way they look at you, it gives you butterflies.”

If only she knew. There are no butterflies, only terror.

I sigh, glancing back at the mirror. She’s still waiting for an answer, her expression expectant. “Yes,” I lie, forcing a smile. “It was… love at first sight. We met at an event, and when I saw him across the room, I just knew.”

Her smile widens, and she nods, satisfied. I feel the weight of my lie settle like a stone in my chest.

The organ’s deep,resonant chords fill the air as the chapel doors swing open. I take a deep breath, the veil pressing lightly against my face, my wedding gown heavy around me like chains. My father’s arm slips through mine, his grip steadying me.

“Dochka,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m proud of you.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, my lips trembling as I force a smile. “Thank you, Papa.”

We walk down the aisle together, each step a deliberate effort to keep my body from betraying the panic bubbling just beneath the surface. Faces blur in my peripheral vision—familiar faces, dangerous faces. Friends and enemies alike are watching, waiting.

I keep my gaze forward, locked on the man standing at the altar.

Dmitri Orlov.

He towers over the priest, his expression unreadable, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the perfectly tailored suit. His features are sharp, striking—handsome, yes, but in a way that feels dangerous, predatory. The kind of beauty that warns you not to get too close.

My heart stutters as our eyes meet through the thin veil. There’s a cold intensity in his gaze, like he’s stripping me bare, seeing parts of me I’ve never shown to anyone. I look away, focusing on the priest’s voice, though the words slip past me like fog.

The vows come and go, my voice sounding distant and hollow as I recite the lines I’ve memorized. Dmitri’s response is short and clipped. He barely looks at me, yet I can feel the weight of his presence, the power he exudes.

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