Page 19 of Hateful Vows
“We’re done,” Aleksei cuts him off, and even though I can’t see him, I somehow feel Misha Petrov’s ire. His voice takes on a dangerous edge.
“You’re done?”
“As of today, the London Bratva is independent. Step foot in the country, and you die.”
Misha lets out a guttural laugh, and Percy hisses, rounding his back at the threat it conveys. “What makes you think I’d ever let you go?”
“Fuck around and find out,” Aleksei says in English before hanging up. He clenches the phone so hard it almost breaks.
“It’s not over, is it?” I ask softly. I’m rattled and for once, I can’t find it in me to disguise it. Aleksei doesn’t comment on it though.
“All the more reason to go through with the wedding tomorrow.”
People start to trickle into the chapel I’m about to be married in. It was hard to find a place that was neutral enough so both Russian Bratva men and Italian mafia capos would agree to sit together for the thirty minute celebration.
It’s quaint and not as ornate as I was expecting but someone must have hired a decorator because a grandiose bouquet of wild flowers, including poppies—my favourite—hangs from each end of the pews. The cold interior where light barely fits in through the stained glass windows is warmed by hundreds of candles along the walls and behind the pulpit.
Since it wasn’t us, I have to guess Dante might be taking this whole charade more seriously than I thought. I don’t understand why it satisfies the little girl inside me that dreamed of having a magical wedding growing up. Until it was snuffed out by my step-father.
I concentrate once more on a more valuable emotion. One I know all too well.
Fury is too kind a word for what I feel. Aleksei waited until I was already in the dress to tell me he’s marrying someone, too. To strengthen the relationship with the Italians, he said. As if my body and soul weren’t enough, already.
My reflection in the mirror laughs at me. I look ridiculous in a champagne silk wedding dress that moulds to my curves and leaves my back on full display. I didn’t have time or the desire to shop for a proper dress so I picked up one from a high-end boutique. I’m not even sure it’s a wedding dress but no one cares. I chose it because it was my size and it wason sale, which I knew would insult Ventura.
The edges of my face are accentuated by shimmering dark eyeliner and my hair is up in a simple ponytail. I couldn’t wait for the hair and make-up artist to be done and leave me alone to have a pity party. One that no one else will attend since I have no friends, and I’ve banished my mother from my life. She cowered and let Ivan Dobrev threaten me and beat me the one time he could, silently watching and doing fuck all. I purchased a new flat for her in a small town miles away from London. That’s more than she deserves. She has no place in my life.
I apply three coats of blood red lipstick and take a deep inhale. I’m marrying into the mafia. The feud between the Russians and the Italians started way before I even landed in London. Loyalty to the Dobrev has been drilled into my skull from the moment I set foot on British soil but in reality, the only people I’ve been loyal to are Aleksei and myself. Who cares that the man on the other side of the aisle is Dante Ventura? I don’t owe the old Bratva fucks an explanation. And it’s better than the fate Misha Petrov wants for me. Better than another arranged marriage with someone older and less… attractive.
The door slams open and whirl around, coming face to face with a tall, blonde woman.
“I hope you have champagne in your room because they forgot it in mine, and let me tell you, I need a drink.”
“I…” My jaw hangs open. “No.”
“Urgh,” she exclaims before falling on one of the love seats on the side. It’s so… undignified. And I can’t look away. The ivoryof her dress highlights the golden hue of her skin. Like me, she put her hair in a simple ponytail, revealing dozens of piercings on both ears, but it’s her makeup that leaves me gob-smacked. Thick black eyeliner and a heavy smokey-eye around hazelnut coloured-eyes, topped with black lipstick. She looks like a goth Barbie, and it works well for her.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” She stands and hugs me. I tense up, hoping she lets me go fast. She must sense my unease as she chuckles. “I’m Lucie. Dante’s cousin and Aleksei’s unfortunate bride. And you’re Irina. We’re almost sisters at this point, though I’ll never bang your brother. Ew. Not my type.”
She chatters on and I let her, completely out of my element in front of this tornado of a woman.
A knock sounds on the door and she stumbles.
“Fuck. He can’t see me, it’s bad luck. Even if it's a fake wedding, I’m not tempting fate, you know.” She doesn’t wait for my answer and hides in the bathroom.
What the hell just happened?
I open the door with a sigh. Aleksei’s standing on the other side of the threshold, in a black and white three piece suit. The only visible sign that this is a wedding and not a funeral is the single white rose attached to his suit pocket. The hard contour of his face and jaw are set with grim determination, reminding me of our purpose here.
I can have everyone I want. Except the one that really matters. I close my heart again and give him a curt nod. This is for the best. The further away from him I am, the better.
“Are you ready,solnychko?”
I take his arm and we move through the chapel. He stops at the bottom of the church aisle. At the head is Dante in a cream suit that fits him like a glove. The shirt underneath is dark green. Music crescendoes as we advance. Dante’s eyes sparkle with mischief and he smiles wolfishly at me. Like he just gained thebest prize. When I’m almost in front of him, he descends the two steps that separates us.
“You look like a goddess made flesh,vipera,” he whispers in my ears and a shiver rakes down my spine. “And you, pretty boy, who knew you cleaned up so nice.” His words are teasing but his gaze is heated as he takes Aleksei in. My brother ignores the lustful gaze of my soon-to-be-husband but I can’t. My lips part. Dante winks at me and takes my hand, guiding me up.
The priest starts to talk but I can’t focus on anything other than my fiancé in front of me. The green of his shirt matches the green of his eyes perfectly and he also has a white rose on his suit pocket. “Is this even a wedding dress?” he asks, like the very idea that it isn’t insults him, and I shake myself out of my thoughts.
