The maid approached me, holding Luca's hand. Relief flooded through me so powerfully I nearly collapsed.
"Luca!" I knelt down and pulled him into my arms, pressing my face into his hair, inhaling his familiar scent. "Oh my God, baby, where were you? I was so worried."
Luca just looked at me with those blue eyes—John's eyes—looking slightly dazed and flushed. I pressed my hand to his forehead, feeling the slight fever there.
"He was feeling unwell," the maid explained, her voice respectful but distant. "One of our staff found him wandering alone. He'd gotten sick on his clothes."
Only then did I notice Luca was wearing different clothes—a crisp white shirt that looked expensive, paired with his own dark pants. The shirt was perfectly fitted to his small frame, as if it had been made for him.
"Who—who changed him?" I asked, a strange feeling settling in my stomach.
"The master himself took care of the boy," the maid said, her eyes showing a hint of surprise. "He was quite concerned about the child's fever."
I froze. "The master?"
"Yes, madam. Mr. Volkov personally attended to him until we could locate you."
My breath caught in my throat. "Mr. Volkov? The—the groom?"
The maid nodded. "Yes, madam. He was very kind with the little one, even postponed some of his preparations for the ceremony."
I stared at Luca, then back at the maid, trying to comprehend what she was saying. The groom—Ivan Volkov—had found my son. Had taken care of him. Had dressed him in clothes that fit perfectly. Weren't mafia's meant to be monsters?
"Is there something wrong, madam?" the maid asked, her expression growing concerned.
I shook my head quickly. "No, no. Please thank him for me." I swallowed hard. "We should go now."
"Of course." The maid reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bottle. "The doctor gave this for the boy's fever. One teaspoon every four hours. Mr. Volkov insisted."
My hands trembled as I took the medicine. "Thank you," I whispered.
I lifted Luca into my arms, holding him close. He rested his head against my shoulder, clearly tired and still feeling unwell.
"Let's go home, baby," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "We don't belong here."
Ivan's POV
I stood at the front of the cathedral, watching as Sofia walked toward me in her white gown. The daughter of my father's oldest ally looked beautiful, but I felt nothing. Her veil couldn't hide the fear in her eyes.
The scent of incense filled the air as the Orthodox priest began. Around us, the most dangerous men in Eastern Europe watched, their faces solemn. This wasn't just a wedding—it was a business merger.
We exchanged rings as tradition required, gold bands that felt cold against my skin. Sofia's eyes met mine—warm brown, intelligent, searching. Not blue. Not her eyes.
The witnesses held ceremonial crowns above our heads, Viktor serving as my tamada. In the Bratva, even our sacred traditions carried the weight of our hierarchy. My crown was larger, more elaborate—a reminder to everyone of who was in charge.
I drank from the common cup first, then handed it to Sofia. She sipped obediently, playing her part perfectly. As we walked three times around the analogion, our hands bound with embroidered cloth, I scanned the crowd for any sign of Mikhail.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest finally said.
The cathedral filled with applause as I leaned down to kiss Sofia. It was brief, formal—a seal on our contract, nothing more.
The reception was pure excess—tables laden with food, vodka flowing freely, toast after toast led by Viktor. Sofia and I sat on elevated chairs, accepting tributes from our guests. Cash in envelopes, luxury watches, property deeds, promises of loyalty.
"Za zdorovye molodykh!" Viktor called out in another toast. "To the health of the newlyweds!"
"Za zdorovye!" the crowd responded, downing their vodka in one swift motion.
The Bratva ceremonies wove themselves throughout the traditional wedding celebrations. Senior captains approached to kiss my ring, then bowed to Sofia—acknowledging her new position as the Pakhan's wife, a status that commanded its own respect and fear.
As the celebration reached its peak, with dancing and drunken revelry all around, Viktor appeared at my side, his expression grim despite the festivities.
"A word, Pakhan?" he said quietly.
I nodded, excusing myself from Sofia's side. We moved to a quiet corner of the grand hall, where the music and laughter provided cover for our conversation.
"The woman Mikhail was talking to—she's gone," Viktor reported. "Vanished. No one saw her leave."
I felt a flicker of irritation. "It doesn't matter. I'll hunt my brother down myself."
Viktor nodded, then switched to Russian. "Chto delat' s novymi postavkami? Oni pribyli ran'she, chem ozhidalos'." [What to do about the new shipments? They arrived earlier than expected.]
"Peremestite ikh v vtoroi sklad. Uvelich'te ohranu vdvoe," I replied coldly. [Move them to the second warehouse. Double the guards.]
"A nashet togo uchastka zemli na severe? Mestnye vlasti soprotivlyayutsya." [And about that land in the north? Local authorities are resisting.]
I considered this for a moment. "Naidite, chto im nuzhno. Den'gi, vlast', zashchita—kazhdyi chelovek imeet tsenu." [Find what they need. Money, power, protection—every man has a price.]
"A yesli oni ne prodayutsya?" Viktor asked, his eyes cold. [And if they can't be bought?]
"Togda my naidem teh, kto prodaetsya," I said with finality. [Then we find those who can be.]
Viktor nodded, satisfied with my approach. "A tot policeiski, Orlov? On khochet perestat' brat' nashi den'gi. Govorit, chto obratilsya k Bogu." [And that cop, Orlov? He wants to stop taking our money. Says he found God.]
I almost smiled. "Napomni yemu o yego semeinom biznese. Kak on protsvetaet blagodarya nashei zashchite. Kak by bylo zhal', yesli by ego docheri uznal otkuda na samom dele idut den'gi na yeye obrazovanie." [Remind him of his family business. How it thrives under our protection. How unfortunate it would be if his daughter learned where the money for her education really comes from.]
"A yesli on vse ravno otkarhetsya?" [And if he still refuses?]
"Togda pokazhi yemu fotografii yego docheri v universitete. Rasskazhi, kak opasno seichas v etom gorode dlya molodykh devushek." [Then show him pictures of his daughter at university. Tell him how dangerous the city is these days for young women.]
Viktor's expression remained neutral. "A yesli i eto ne podeistvuet?" [And if even that doesn't work?]
"Togda my budem miloserdny. Bystraya i chistaya smert'. Ya ne ubiytsа detei, Viktor." [Then we show mercy. A quick, clean death. I'm not a killer of children, Viktor.]
Viktor studied me, his expression unreadable. "Ty izmenilsya za poslednie dva goda, Ivan. S tekh por kak vernulsya iz mertvykh. Ty kholodnee. Rasschitlivee. No to, chto tvoi brat pytalsya ubit' tebya... eto to, chto po-nastoyashchemu menya bespokoiт." [You've changed in the last two years, Ivan. Since you came back from the dead. You're colder. More calculating. But your brother trying to kill you... that's what truly worries me.]
I met his gaze steadily. "Ne bespokoysya obo mne, drug moi. Ya v poryadke." [Don't worry about me, my friend. I'm fine.]
The truth—that it wasn't Mikhail's betrayal that had changed me, but the woman I'd fallen in love with and married during my absence—would remain my secret. Just as the pain of walking away from her would remain buried deep where no one could see it.
"Ya zabyl proshloe," I said firmly. "Seichas ya sosredotochen na svoyei novoi zhene i budushchem Bratvy." [I've forgotten the past. Now I'm focused on my new wife and the future of the Bratva.]
As if conjured by my words, Sofia appeared at my side, elegant in her wedding gown.
"Moy tsar'," she greeted me formally, using the term that meant "my king." Her Russian was perfect, another asset that had made her a suitable match.
I took her hand, shaking it formally before leaning down to place a kiss on top of her head—a gesture that was respectful but lacked any real warmth.
"The helicopter is ready to take you to your honeymoon," Viktor interrupted, nodding toward the lawns where the sleek black chopper waited.
Sofia and I made our way through the departing guests, accepting final congratulations and well-wishes. The men bowed slightly as we passed, a mark of respect to their Pakhan and his new bride. The women watched Sofia with calculating eyes, measuring her worth and potential influence.
When we reached the helicopter, I helped her in carefully, ensuring her wedding gown didn't catch. The pilot—one of my most trusted men—nodded in greeting as we boarded.
As the rotors began to spin, I cast one final glance at the mansion—my childhood home, now the seat of my power. Somewhere out there, Mikhail was plotting his next move. And somewhere else, far away from this world of violence and betrayal, was the only woman I'd ever truly loved.
The helicopter lifted off, carrying me and my new bride toward our future—a future that would be built on duty and power, not love and tenderness. Just as it was always meant to be.