Page 73 of Santa Daddy
The pause before the compliment turned my stomach.
Baranov held up a hand, silencing him.
“You understand what this means,” the old man said to Konstantin. “No more games. You are Pakhan now in all but name. Your enemies will come for her first. Your men will look at her and see weakness.”
His gaze cut into me, measuring. “Prove them wrong.”
No pressure.
“I intend to,” Konstantin said.
There was something cold and lethal in his voice that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
Baranov watched him a second longer, then nodded once. “Then we go drink,” he said. “And see if your new bride can keep up.”
He turned and shuffled out, flanked by two other elders. The air shifted with their absence, slightly less heavy but no more safe.
Maksim lingered.
“You really surprised us this time,” he said lightly, switching back to English. “Whole Foods girl to church bride in three days. Tell me, Daniela—” his gaze ran over the dress, the veil, my bare skin “—is this what you dreamed of as a child?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I think the Barbie version had fewer guns.”
His mouth tugged. Not quite a smile. “Don’t worry. They are not for you. Unless Konstantin disappoints.”
The look he shot his cousin was all teeth.
“Enough,” Konstantin said, voice gone quiet. “We have guests.”
“Of course.” Maksim stepped aside, eyes gleaming. “Lead the way,Pakhan.”
The word wasn’t quite mocking.
But it wasn’t not, either.
The reception was heldin the church’s “social hall,” which was a generous term for a long, echoing room with high ceilings and questionable paint. Someone had tried to dress it up—whitetablecloths, crystal, more evergreens. It looked like a wedding Pinterest board had wandered into a mob summit by accident.
Champagne flowed. So did vodka. A string quartet in the corner tried to make “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” sound like it wasn’t being played over the buzz of criminal gossip.
Konstantin’s hand never left me. Palm at my waist, fingers strong on my hip, occasional slide to the small of my back as if I might forget whose orbit I was in.
To everyone watching, it probably looked like devotion.
I knew better.
Chains. Just with nicer hardware.
“Konstantin.” A man with a square face stepped up, clapping him on the shoulder. “You did not say your bride was this lovely. Baranov almost smiled.”
“Krupin,” Konstantin said. “This is my wife, Daniela.”
Wife.
He said it casually, like it was settled fact and not the result of blackmail deeds and a nod that barely counted.
Krupin took my hand, bent over it in an old-world gesture that managed to be respectful and creepy at the same time. His ring scraped my knuckles.
“Welcome to the family,” he said. “I hope you like snow and blood.”
