Page 118 of Bride of Vengeance
"Perfect."
The ceremony itself is a blur of English, Spanish, and Russian—a deliberate blend of our cultures. When it comes time for vows, Mikhail surprises everyone by speaking first in Spanish.
"Mariana, mi alma, mi corazón," he begins, his pronunciation still slightly off but the effort clear. "You hunted me for two years, caught me in a few days, and owned my heart from the first moment you pointed a gun at me in that burning warehouse."
Soft laughter ripples through the church.
"I promise," he continues in English now, "to protect you without controlling you, to love you without consuming you, and to give our children the family neither of us had complete. You saved me from being only Ghost. You made me want to be a man worthy of your love."
I'm crying, not even trying to hide it.
"My turn," I manage. "Mikhail, you were supposed to be my greatest catch, my career-defining arrest. Instead, you became my salvation. You showed me that sometimes the law and justice aren't the same thing. That love doesn't follow rules or timelines."
I touch my belly where our twins rest. "You've given me everything—protection, passion, these babies, and a family I never knew I needed. I promise to stand beside you, to trust your strength while maintaining my own, and to never let you alphabetize my food cravings again."
He laughs, and several people who know about his organizational obsessions join in.
"I promise," I continue more seriously, "to love every part of you—the protector, the father, the man who still terrifies others but brings me coffee exactly how I like it every morning."
The priest, who's been remarkably patient with our non-traditional vows, finally gets to the official parts. Rings are exchanged—Mikhail adding a wedding band to match the engagement ring and courthouse ring already on my finger.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you—again—husband and wife."
Mikhail kisses me before the priest finishes, one hand tangling in my hair while the other rests possessively on my belly. It's not entirely appropriate for church, but I don't care. Thecongregation erupts in applause and what sounds suspiciously like Russian drinking songs from Boris's section.
The reception is at the Morozov estate, transformed into a winter wonderland despite it being late March. Mila has outdone herself—twinkling lights, elaborate floral arrangements, and enough food to feed a small army.
"How are you feeling?" Mikhail asks during our first dance, his hand warm on my lower back.
"Like a whale trying to waltz."
"A beautiful whale."
"That's not the compliment you think it is."
He spins me carefully, mindful of my changed center of gravity. "You're carrying twins. My twins. You've never been more beautiful."
"Smooth talker."
"I’m more like a truth teller."
The music changes, and my mother claims the next dance with Mikhail while Alexei partners with me.
"He's different," Alexei observes as we move. "Softer."
"Is that bad? For business?"
"No. Men fight harder when they have something to protect. And Mikhail would burn the world for you and those babies."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be. It's just true."
The reception continues late into the night. Russian toasts that get increasingly elaborate and probably obscene. My Texas relatives teaching Boris to line dance. Rodriguez giving a surprisingly touching toast about partnership and second chances.
"You know," Mikhail says as we watch the chaos from our sweetheart table, "I never thought I'd have this."
"A wedding?"
