Page 133 of Sadistic

My father arrives, impeccable in his tuxedo, watching me with those calculating eyes.

"Nervous?" he asks, adjusting my bow tie with practiced hands.

"No."

"Liar." But he smiles slightly. "I threw up twice before marrying your mother."

"Seriously?"

"Locked myself in a bathroom stall, convinced I was making the worst mistake of my life." He steps back, evaluating his handiwork. "Thirty-three years later, she's still the only person who scares me more than death."

"That's reassuring."

"It should be. Fear keeps you sharp. Keeps you from taking her for granted." He clasps my shoulder. "Your mother's on her way. Fair warning—she's emotional."

As if summoned, Mum sweeps in, already dabbing at her eyes. "My baby boy," she says, then immediately starts fussing with my hair. "You look so handsome. So grown up."

"Mom, I've been a grown arse man for years now."

"You'll always be my baby." She adjusts my pocket square, fingers trembling slightly. "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes."

"Really ready? Not just going through the motions?"

I catch her hands, still them. "I've been ready for five years."

She studies my face, then nods. "Good. Because that girl deserves someone who chooses her completely."

Rhiannon appears in the doorway. "Cars are here. Time to go see if your bride actually shows up."

"She's already there," Mikhail informs her.

"Well, that's one worry down." My sister grins. "Though she might still run. I would if I was marrying you."

"Supportive as always."

"That's what family's for."

The drive to the venue takes forty minutes.

We head out of Tallahassee into the countryside where old money built plantations that now serve as event spaces for people who can afford to pretend at Southern grandeur.

The Bellewood Estate appears through the trees like something from a movie.

White columns, wraparound porches, ancient oaks dripping with Spanish moss.

The kind of place that's seen centuries of secrets, where beauty masks the blood in the soil.

Perfect for a marriage like ours.

Security is everywhere—some obvious, some blending into the landscape.

I spot Bratva men in suits, MC members trying to look comfortable in formal wear, and hired professionals who don't care about our politics as long as the check clears.

"Subtle," Rhiannon mutters as we pass the third checkpoint.

"Necessary," I correct.

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