Page 6 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

The organ music swells again, signaling the ceremony’s about to begin. Incense and lilies drift through the cathedral. Candles throw gold across painted icons and stone-faced saints, centuries of history pressing in from every wall.

“I don’t even know what she looks like,” I mutter.

“You will in about thirty seconds.” Igor claps my shoulder, equal parts warning and reassurance. “And Aleks?”

I glance at him.

“Keep your face under control.”

I almost laugh at that.

“When don’t I?”

His grip tightens briefly. “This isn’t a job. It’s a message.”

I already know.

Father Bogdan takes his place at the analogion, beard and vestments glowing in candlelight. The guests settle—rows of New York’s Russian underworld dressed in black wool and tailored silk, here to witness an alliance sealed in God’s house.

I turn toward the cathedral doors, forcing my expression into neutral calm.

This is duty.

This is strategy.

This is sacrifice.

I’ve survived worse.

The first notes of the processional roll through the church, vibrating through my chest. Any second now, I’ll see the woman I’m supposed to protect, provide for, and bind to our name—whether she wants it or not.

The cathedral doors swing open.

She’s walking down the aisle on her father’s arm, wrapped in white lace that was clearly fitted in a hurry. Beautiful, expensive, immaculate from a distance.

Wrong up close.

Not the tension locked through her spine, not the expression she’s fighting to keep neutral, and definitely not the black nail polish on the fingers gripping her bouquet hard enough to bruise the stems.

The detail hits me strangely hard.

A woman expecting to get married today doesn’t paint her nails black.

The realization lands, sharp and ugly.

She didn’t choose this.

I knew that, of course. Arranged marriages rarely happen cleanly. David Kalinin is forcing the alliance through before the Colombians escalate things further.

But theory is different from watching a woman walk toward you like she’s being marched to her own beheading.

She keeps her chin lifted anyway.

That’s the part that gets me. Control. Pure fucking discipline. Like she’s holding herself together through force of will alone.

Beside me, Igor says something under his breath. I don’t hear a word of it.

All I can see is the slight stiffness in her posture. The way Kalinin’s hand closes too tightly around her arm. The fact that she still hasn’t looked at me.