Page 69 of Santa Daddy
Valentina had called it a “wedding gown” with the same tone people used for “national treasure.” I called it obscene. Ivory silk poured over me like liquid sin, clinging to every curve. The neckline dove to my navel, the back was almost nonexistent, and the skirt hugged my hips before flaring just enough to pretend at modesty.
This wasn’t a dress.
This was branding.
“Breathtaking,” Svetlana said from behind me, in that flat way that somehow still managed to sound like a verdict. She flicked a speck of lint off the cathedral-length veil, then adjusted it so it spilled down my back in a waterfall of tulle.
It felt less like a veil and more like someone had draped a net over me.
“You look like you could destroy men,” she added.
“Working on it,” I muttered. “One in particular.”
Svetlana’s mouth quirked—almost a smile, almost pity.
“He is making statement,” she said. “This dress says, ‘Touch her and you lose hand.’”
“Funny,” I huffed. “To me it says, ‘Touch her and you smudge the merchandise.’”
“Time to go.” Natasha’s voice came from the doorway, dry as ever. She’d traded her all-black uniform for a dark wool coat, but she still radiated unimpressed executioner. She checked a thin silver watch. “Mr. Zverev does not like to be kept waiting.”
Of course he didn’t.
Control freak.
The car ride to St. Bartholomew’s felt like being wheeled into surgery.
Snow blurred the city into streaks of white and sodium orange. The dress pooled around me on the leather. The veil itched the back of my neck, a fancy leash pinned to my skull.
Outside, people hurried along the sidewalks in coats and scarves, arms full of shopping bags and coffee cups. Christmas Eve.
I was on my way to marry a liar with a body count.
The church rose out of the snow like something from a Gothic postcard. Stone spires stabbed at the gray sky, stained glass glowed faintly from within. In another life, it would’ve been romantic.
Tonight it looked like a warning.
Even God knows this is wrong.
Inside, the air was cold and thick with incense. Candles lined the aisle, flames shivering, throwing long amber shadows that hid more than they revealed. Evergreen garlands wound around pillars, white lights draped across the altar rail like twinkle lights could fix anything.
There weren’t many people, but every single one mattered.
Maybe twenty men, all in tailored suits cut to hide metal. Holsters under wool and cashmere. The faint bulge of pistols at ribs, knives at ankles. Scarred knuckles. Watchful eyes.
Bratva leadership. The “council” he’d mentioned in his office, now in the flesh.
Natasha’s hand settled—light but insistent—between my shoulder blades, steering me toward a side entrance. The musicswelled—organ and choir, like this was any other Christmas Eve service.
It wasn’t.
We stepped out at the front of the church, near the altar. Every head turned. Every gaze measured.
Assessing. Calculating. Weighing whether I made him weaker, or more dangerous.
Livestock at auction.
Konstantin waited at the altar like a dark idol in a perfectly cut black tux. Snow still clung to the dark hair at his temples, melting slowly. A white rose sat in his lapel, its innocence obscene.
