Page 100 of Obsessive Vows

"Rise," Viktor commands, his voice carrying the authority he was born to wield. "The Baranov-Markov alliance accepts your oath."

One by one, the captains come forward—some eager for change, others barely concealing their resentment. Each pledges loyalty to our new reign, to the bloodline formed through our union. By dawn, the transition is complete, power secured through ancient Bratva traditions of allegiance and blood.

"There's someone waiting to see you," Nikolai says as the last captain departs, something almost like a smile touching his usually cold features. "In your father's—forgive me—in your private quarters."

My heart thunders in my chest as we climb the staircase, Viktor's hand steady at the small of my back. The door to Markov’s suite—now ours—opens to reveal Anna, our most trusted ally, holding a precious bundle wrapped in yellow.

"Sofia," I breathe, rushing forward with none of the composure expected of a Bratva queen. My arms reach for my daughter, the weight of her against my chest the only reality that matters amid the night's violence and chaos.

Viktor moves more slowly, his face transforming as Sofia turns toward his voice, tiny hands reaching for her father with complete trust that shatters the last of his professional detachment. He takes her carefully, those lethal hands impossibly gentle as he cradles our daughter.

"She's home now," he says, voice rough with emotion rarely displayed. "No more hiding. No more separation."

"Home," I echo, looking around the suite that was once my parents' sanctuary, now the center of our new reign. The thought should terrify me—the responsibility, the danger—but with Sofia in Viktor's arms and the dawn breaking over Moscow, I feel only certainty.

***

Two weeks later, I stand before a mirror in a different white dress than I'd imagined wearing for this occasion. No designer gown selected by my father for display, but simple silk that falls in clean lines to the floor. My mother's sapphires at my throat, something old and something blue combined.

"Ready?" Lena asks, adjusting the simple veil over my hair.

"Yes," I answer, the certainty in my voice surprising even me. "More than ready."

The ceremony is small by Bratva standards—just the captains and their wives, key allies, and Sofia, watched over by Anna in the front row. No elaborate cathedral wedding as my father had planned, but the private chapel on the Markov estate grounds, reconsecrated for the occasion.

Viktor waits at the altar, the controlled operative replaced by a man whose eyes never leave mine as I walk toward him. Not an arrangement now, nor an alliance, but a choice. Our choice.

"I, Viktor Baranov, take you, Anastasia Markova, as my wife," he vows, words spoken not just to me but to all who witness. "To protect, to honor, to cherish until death parts us."

"I, Anastasia Markova, take you, Viktor Baranov, as my husband," I respond, the traditional words carrying new meaning between us. "To stand beside, to fight with, to love until death parts us."

The priest pronounces us husband and wife, the union of Baranov and Markov bloodlines now sanctified before God and the Bratva. Viktor's kiss is gentle despite the witnesses, his hand warm against my waist as we turn to face our new empire together.

The reception follows traditions older than the Markov's reign—vodka shared from a single cup, bread broken together, traditional dances that speak of Russia's soul beneath Bratva adaptations. But the moment that matters most comes when Viktor calls for silence, Anna bringing Sofia forward to stand with us before the assembled captains.

"I present to you Sofia Viktorovna Baranov-Markova," Viktor announces, his voice carrying to every corner of the grand hall. "My daughter. My heir. The future of our united houses."

Sofia, resplendent in white lace that matches my gown, surveys the room with those silver Baranov eyes, utterly unimpressed by the power brokers bowing to her four-month-old majesty. Her tiny hand reaches for the sapphires at my throat, more interested in shiny objects than empire building.

The captains raise their glasses in the traditional toast, but the words are different now—not "To the pakhan" as they would have said to Markov, but "To the family." The shift feels significant, a declaration of the changes already in motion throughout our operations.

Later, when the celebrations continue around us, Viktor pulls me into a moment of privacy behind a marble column. His hands frame my face with unusual tenderness, eyes searching mine with intensity that still makes my heart race.

"Are you certain?" he asks, the question encompassing everything—our marriage, our reign, the changes we've implemented, the future we're building. "This isn't what you planned. What either of us planned."

I lean into his touch, allowing myself vulnerability I'd never have shown before Sofia, before him. "Plans change," I say simply. "This is better."

His kiss is different now—not desperate passion amid danger, not a performance for watching eyes, but something deeper. Something that belongs only to us, to the family we've made from the wreckage of violence and vengeance.

One month after our wedding, we sit for the official portrait—the first of the Baranov-Markov dynasty. Viktor in traditional formal wear, Sofia in his arms. Me beside them, my father's chair beneath me but transformed by new authority. The photographer fusses with lighting, with positioning, with the ancient Bratva symbols carefully arranged to signal both tradition and transformation.

"Perfect," he finally says, camera ready. "The new royal family of the Bratva."

I feel Viktor tense slightly beside me, the old title striking uncomfortably close to the power structures we're working to dismantle. But Sofia chooses that moment to laugh, the sound so unexpected in the formal setting that we both turn to her in surprise.

"Not royal," I correct the photographer, my hand finding Viktor's as Sofia continues to giggle between us. "Just family."

The camera flashes, capturing the moment—not posed perfection but genuine connection. The three of us bound not by crowns or thrones but by something stronger. Something worth protecting. Something worth building.

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