Page 38 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
She nods, once, barely more than a breath.
The car waits at the curb, black and gleaming, the guards lining the path. We step inside together. No one speaks. The future is a closed door, locked and silent.
Inside the quiet of the car, I watch her fingers twist the new ring, her gaze drifting to the window, to the world she can no longer touch.
I reach for her hand, twining our fingers, anchoring her to me, to this moment, to everything we have promised and everything we will become. She lets me.
As the car pulls away, I watch the cathedral recede in the rearview mirror, its stone walls shrinking against the gray sky. I do not pray, but I do hold on tighter.
The reception is held in a mansion on the outskirts of the city, a fortress dressed in silk and crystal, its corners shadowed by men in suits with watchful eyes and silent mouths.
Talia sits at my side, her new ring bright and unfamiliar against the stem of her champagne flute.
Waiters sweep through the room, pouring drinks that no one truly wants, filling plates that go untouched. The string quartet plays on, but the mood is tight, brittle, a forced celebration for a marriage no one quite trusts.
My captains eye Talia with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. I see it in the sideways glances, the murmured conversations as they size her up, calculating what this new alliance means, what weakness or advantage it might bring.
Some of them have known me since I was a boy. Some have spilled blood for my father and would do the same for me. None of them say a word against my choice, but I know their loyalty is not without limits.
Talia sits quietly, back straight, eyes scanning the room, not just to see, but to understand. She is not smiling, not pretending. I wonder what she is thinking, whether she is plotting escape or simply memorizing every detail, a spy in a dress of cream satin and stolen courage.
My aunt, a small woman with fierce eyes and a mouth that could curdle milk, sweeps across the floor in a rustle of velvet and perfume. She kisses both our cheeks, as tradition demands, but lingers just a heartbeat longer by my ear.
In Russian, she whispers, “Is she worth what you’re risking?” Her lips are cool against my skin. I do not answer. I cannot, not honestly.
She squeezes my arm—hard, a warning, a blessing, or both—and moves on.
The air hums with words unsaid. Toasts are made, but each is a test. My uncle raises his glass and calls Talia “brave.”
Miroslav stays close, silent and grim, his hand never far from his jacket. I pretend to drink, watching the faces that watch me in return. Even Yelena’s absence is a presence, a threat in every shadow.
Then, just as the room begins to settle, just as I start to believe we might endure this night, a sound shatters the false peace.
A low, guttural boom shakes the windows. Glass trembles in its frame. The lights flicker. For a heartbeat, no one moves. The shock is too absolute. Then, outside, shouts rise. Guards running, radios crackling, the sharp bark of orders cutting through the confusion.
Without thinking, I pull Talia from her seat, shoving her behind me. I draw my gun, the movement instinctive, practiced. All around us, guests scramble for cover, ducking under tables, diving behind the marble bar.
The security team swarms the exits, weapons drawn. The band stutters to a halt, leaving nothing but the ragged panting of fear.
I press Talia to the wall, shielding her with my body, gun raised toward the door. Her breath is hot at my neck, her hands tight around my jacket. I feel her heartbeat hammering through the silk.
“What was that?” she whispers.
“Car bomb,” I say. “Not close enough to kill. Meant to send a message.”
My mind is already moving through the list of names—family, rivals, men who might have objected to tonight’s alliance. The timing is too precise, too calculated. This was not an attack on our lives. It was a warning. A shot across the bow. Someone inside the family, someone who wanted to remind me that my power is not absolute.
Miroslav appears at my side, face carved from stone. “Courtyard’s secure. Two cars destroyed. No casualties.”
I nod, never taking my eyes off the room. “Who was the target?”
He shakes his head, voice pitched low. “Both cars belonged to our own men. They were parked far from the guests.”
So it’s clear, then—no intention to kill. Just to unsettle. To remind me that every decision, every alliance, every claim I make has a cost.
The guests begin to recover, brushing glass from their sleeves, checking phones, murmuring to each other. My captains look to me for orders. My aunt stands in the center of the floor, head high, daring anyone to challenge her place at my side.
I holster my weapon, slow and careful. I look at Talia. Her eyes are wide, but she does not cry. She does not flinch. I feel a surge of pride that she can stand here, untouched by the terror that would have sent most running.
