“It’s woman for woman in our world and you know it.”
Ilias didn’t look heartbroken as he sat back in the chair in his office of his newly acquired building. In New fucking Orleans.
Vasili was pissed. His hair would permanently remain red at this rate.
October was wrapping up. Branka and I left Russia and were back in New Orleans, preparing for our wedding. Well, there wasn’t much preparation. It’d be just family. Today. At the courthouse in front of the Justice of the Peace. And then a celebration at my brother’s club.
Afterwards, we’d fly out for our honeymoon. To Russia. Who the fuck knew that my soon bride-to-be would fall in love with Russia. She stocked up our family home with everything Russian. Movies. Food. Songs. James Bond With Love from Russia was a must play at least once a month. We continued her, now our, Friday night movie traditions. Once a month her brother and his family joined us. Alessio grumbled about freezing his balls off while the rest of us ignored him. Children included.
All the fucked up memories were removed from our old family home. It became our primary residence and we started to make new memories. The old Russo mansion was burned to the ground. Oops, just a little accident involving matches and gasoline but it helped Branka. That was all that mattered.
New Orleans and Montréal became our second homes. We stayed at our penthouse in New Orleans when visiting and in Montréal we bought a manor neighboring Alessio’s. Much to his joy. Or dismay. It was still up for debate.
That was fine with me, as long as Branka was happy. And she was. I could see it in the way her eyes shone like diamonds. It gave me a fucking hard-on every time. There was no better feeling than seeing her like that.
“Fuck woman for a woman,” I told Ilias. “Your crazy brother just about killed my wife.”
Ilias’ brow shot up. “I thought you were getting married today at the courthouse.” Fucking know-it-all motherfucker. “And then a party at the Den of Sin, nonetheless.”
He snickered at the name. It wasn’t my fault my big brother was corny and named the club after Tatiana and Isabella’s dorm room back at Georgetown.
I flipped Konstantin the bird. Of course, he would never flip one back. Fucking sophisticated ass. I guess it was unbecoming of Pakhan to give someone the middle finger.
“Back to the topic at hand,” Ilias continued, his tone almost bored. Like the biggest day of my life was a nuisance.
The fucker is probably heartbroken because he didn’t get invited, I thought smugly to myself.
“Tatiana isn’t for sale,” Vasili growled. “We don’t want trouble with you, Konstantin. But if needed, we’ll go to war. Your brother shot Branka, almost killed her.”
“And her father killed Maxim’s woman,” Ilias replied coldly. Not a single emotion passed his face. I couldn’t fucking tell whether he was grieving his twin brother or not. “Somehow the scale is tilted to Russo’s favor. My brother and his woman are dead.”
“I killed the old Russo,” I told Ilias. “Take that for your payment. Eye for an eye. And be gone.”
His dark eyes flickered with something darker. Threatening. It wasn’t smart to antagonize the Pakhan, and I knew it even before I saw Vasili’s murderous expression.
But Konstantin had a reason for wanting Tatiana. It had nothing to do with obsession and love.
“Tell us why you want her,” I said. He had seen Tatiana seven years ago. Before Adrian and the clusterfuck that happened with his accident. He never showed any interest. Suddenly, it was like nobody else existed.
He sat up, signaling the meeting was over. He straightened his sleeves, his diamond cuffs catching the light shining through the windows.
“She has something that belongs to me,” he responded. “I expect your final answer by the end of today. My men will see you out.”
Well, fuck me.
Her family. Mine. Ours.
That was all we had as Branka and I walked toward the Supreme Court Building of Louisiana in the historic district. Aurora pulled some strings from her old buddies and got us in with the chief judge.
If the poor soul only knew who he was marrying.
The chatter of people, honking, music and bustle of the French Quarter was all around us but it was only a white noise in my mind. The only thing I heard were Branka’s even breaths.
She wasn’t nervous. Neither was I. This was just a formality. So the world knew who they’d fuck with if they touched her. Or even looked her way.
Branka Michelle Nikolaev.
It sounded fucking great. It sounded right.
She looked beautiful. Breathtaking. Her cheeks flushed. Her silver colored leather pants hugged her ass perfectly. Her silver Chanel shirt breathed elegance into her outfit, but it was the red heels she wore that finished her outfit.
She looked like a Nikolaev. Like my woman.
My gaze flickered down to our interlocked fingers. My ink stark against her pale skin. The symbols on my fingers used to be a reminder of my mother’s last words. Now they were a reminder of Branka.
Her strength. Her survival. Her soft heart.
She was born for me, just as I was born for her.
The ceremony was short. I had no fucking clue what words were spoken. The only ones I heard were the ones Branka had given me. Her vows of love, trust, and devotion. She knew she had mine.
After all, she was my obsession. Part of my every breath.
I slid the ring onto her finger and her soft gasp reached my ears. It was a simple yellow gold band with an engraving. Moye Serdtse.
“Because you’ve been my heart all along,” I said, meeting her gaze.
Her delicate neck moved as she swallowed, then took my hand and slid the ring onto my finger. I let out a noise of amusement while my chest tightened. She was the only woman who could do that to me.
“And because you’re mine,” she murmured.
Her ring had the same engraving. Moye Serdtse. It was what started our story.
“Great minds,” I muttered.
“Or crazy,” she mused. “But as long as we’re together, it doesn’t really matter.”
She was fucking right about that.
