“And do you, Isabella Ricci, take this man to be your—”
The silence that fills the cathedral as I walk through the large, creaking mahogany doors curls my lips into a satisfied smirk. It lasts only a millisecond and is quickly followed by the sound of guns being drawn, but it pleases me.
“Please, please—” I click my tongue and shake my head, keeping one hand on the gun tucked into my waistband. “Let’s not resort to hostilities now, shall we? I’m only here for one thing.”
I look around at the collective shock on the faces of the attendants, and the angry expressions on the faces of the men with their guns trained on me.
As if they would ever get the chance to fire.
“What do you want, Roman Volkov?” someone asks tightly.
Ah, yes. My smirk widens into a face-splitting grin. “I was starting to think my reputation no longer preceded me.” I pause my march down the aisle to give the man my attention.
I note his appearance—a knife wound down the side of his face and across his lip, giving him a perpetual scowl, and the presence of a limp with one leg placed ahead of the other.
Marco Ricci’s hound dog. One of the men who was so unfortunate as to stand in my way when I went looking for the bastard. I should’ve taken the leg from him altogether.
“You know what I want,” I tell him, stepping in his direction. He moves a step back, fear sharply crossing his face. “Where is he?”
He sneers. “You’re making a terrible mistake. You shouldn’t have come here. Do you expect to leave alive?”
“Why not?” I shrug nonchalantly. “I only came here for one thing today. And that is—” My gaze spins toward the altar, where a dark-haired woman with olive skin watches my every move.
Her eyes are the darkest shade of brown I’ve ever seen. Almost black, except for the way they gleam in the lights above her. The man beside her is irrelevant, so I don’t bother sparing him a glance. “Her.” I point. “I’m here to take my bride.”
“Never!” the hound dog spits.
From the corner of my eye, I see him tilt his head, a subtle sign for his men to attack. I lift a finger, and my men—men I carefully planted in the church before the wedding ceremony began—rise from the pews, slipping their hands inside their jackets.
The soft rustle of fabric is nearly drowned out by the sharp metallic clicks of safeties being disengaged. Gasps of horror ripple through the church as many of the guests fall to their knees, hiding underneath the pews.
The other men hesitate for a second, but that second is all I need to know they’re outnumbered. Outmaneuvered.
“See.” My smile fades into a cold, leveling glare. “I told you. You don’t have to resort to hostilities. You allow me to take what’s mine, and I’ll let you give my message to Marco Ricci. Tell him that I intend to marry his daughter and that she will be pregnant with my heir by this time next month.”
His face turns a shade of translucent pale, and I catch the gasp of shock that leaves the bride’s lips before she quickly masks it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I address the crowd, continuing my walk down the aisle. “I’m not here to disrupt your day. In fact, I’m willing to get things over and done with. Ten minutes,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on Isabella. “That’s all I ask.”
When I get to where she stands, I hold out my hand. The groom, choosing this moment to prove his masculinity, cuts in front of me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Move,” I growl. “Now.”
He takes out his gun, pointing it at my forehead. “No. You move. Or else I’ll splatter your brains across the floor. I don’t know what audacity brought you here, but I’m giving you one last chance to get the fuck out.”
A dry laugh escapes me—one full of disbelief and fury. “You must have a death wish, talking to me like that with your hands shaking.”
He takes the bait, looking down at his hand. I react, hitting him squarely in the elbow. The gun clatters to the ground as he winces in pain, and I kick it away, far from his reach.
“Playtime’s over,” I mutter, turning to Isabella again. A fine sheen of sweat gathers on her forehead, but her chin remains tilted. Stubborn, I muse. Good. I didn’t expect her to be anything else.
It only means I’ll have fun breaking her.
I hold out my hand again. “You’re either leaving here on your feet or—” For some reason, she picks the second option, making a break in the other direction. I sigh, watching her skate on her heels for a moment before I catch up to her in long strides.
I throw her over my shoulder.
“Let me go!” she yells, her fists pounding against my back. “Let me go, you brute!”
Brute? That’s a word I haven’t heard in a long time. When her fists do nothing, she sinks her fingers into my shirt, clawing and ripping the fabric to get to my skin. I feel the sting of her nails, but it doesn’t slow me down.
“Let me go, or I swear I’ll be the one to put the bullet between your eyes!” she protests, clawing and wriggling against my hold. I see her hand as it reaches lower, and I slap a hand over her ass as a warning.
“Keep fighting, printsessa, and I’ll give these people something real to gasp about.”
As I near the doors, I hear a click behind me. It’s faint, a lost sound amidst the gasps and murmurs, but I hear it. In a flash, I spin on my heels, my gun going off before the groom can take his shot.
He falls to the ground with a thud, and a loud wail echoes against the walls.
“You killed him!” Isabella screams. “You killed him, you murderer!”
Ignoring her protest, I walk through the doors, leaving the attendants to deal with the dead groom. Isabella is still fighting as I approach the cars parked down the curb. My second-in-command, Sergei, opens the door to a black Mercedes.
“No!” Isabella grabs the edge of the open door, the space where the frame curves inward but hasn’t shut yet, her fingers locking onto it like a lifeline. She pulls forward with all her strength, bracing her feet against the inside edge of the car, trying to launch herself back out.
It’s desperation. Pure and raw—and it kicks at something dangerous inside me. Something that is very tempted to see how much fight she has inside her.
But it’s useless.
I lean down, pry her fingers free one by one despite her kicking legs and venom-laced curses, then slam the door shut with her inside. Her fists bang against the window, her eyes furious behind the glass.
I give Sergei the order. “Take her home. Keep the doors locked. I’ll be right behind you.”
He nods curtly and gets behind the wheel without a word. The car pulls away, and I watch it go before sliding into the passenger seat of the next one.
“Well,” Leo—my best friend who I’ve known all my life—drawls as I close the door. “If you were going for shock value and theatrics, I’d say you achieved just that.”
“Drive,” I mutter, leaning back and closing my eyes. I don’t want to listen to his feedback now, because I know he has reservations.
He shrugs. I feel it. “Sure. I’ll just shut my mouth and act as your designated driver. That’s what you pay me for, right? To be your getaway driver after you shoot a groom dead at the altar.”
My eyes open slowly, and I pin him with a burning glare. He lifts one hand in surrender. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be sarcastic. I just thought you had a different plan.”
I don’t respond, and he sighs, turns the ignition, and pulls the car away from the cathedral’s curb. I close my eyes again, letting my thoughts settle as he drives.
He’s right, though. I had a different plan. Killing Marco. After learning that the bastard had resurfaced, I had only one goal. To find him and see the fear in his eyes as I watch the life drain from them.
Then he vanished. I had dozens of my men watching his hideouts, and he still managed to vanish.
That’s when the plan changed.
When I heard that Marco Ricci was marrying off his daughter to a bastard son of a powerful bratva pakhan, I knew what I had to do. A life for a life. Since he had betrayed a blood pact, I would take the only thing that mattered to him.
His daughter.
Dark-haired, olive-skinned Isabella Ricci. The image of her standing by the altar, her chin tilted and defiance flashing in her eyes, fills my mind. My lips curl into a smile, and my fingers dance on my thigh.
I’ve heard about her—how she has shadowed her father from a young age, and the influence she has among his Russian and Italian allies. It wouldn’t have mattered what she looks like or what she can do, but knowing what I know makes it more interesting.
“You know you just declared war, right?” Leo comments.
One eye opens. “Let him come. He’ll be walking to his death.” It’s exactly what I want.
Leo glances at me, sees my unbothered expression, and shakes his head. “I’m not talking about that. You killed a Glazastov. His father will come for you. With the entire Glazastov brotherhood behind him. They never really liked you anyway.”
I scoff, waving his concern away. “I killed his bastard son,” I correct. “Boris Glazastov has so many sons he doesn’t know all their names. This was an attempt to build a long-lasting alliance. It won’t matter to him that one’s down.”
He arches his brow, and I point ahead, wordlessly telling him to focus. “If he’s that worked up, I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse. A treaty with the Volkov bratva or hanging on the coattails of a man on the run.”
Leo clicks his tongue. “When you put it that way.”
“You have so little faith in me, Leonardo,” I say.
“I’m simply looking after you,” he replies.
I roll my eyes, then close them again, shutting him out. My thoughts wander to Isabella, and I touch my chest, patting the places where her fingernails broke my skin.
I just hope she hasn’t decapitated Sergei.
The giant iron-wrought gates open inward as Leo drives in, passing through a long row of canopy trees. The house—a stately mansion with cobblestones—comes into view as we get closer. Leo pulls up in front, and Sergei hurries toward the car, holding the door open for me.
“Boss.” He nods.
“Where is she?” I ask, noting the bright strip along his cheek where she probably swiped at him.
He looks over his shoulder. “In the living room, boss. The main one. I didn’t know what to do, so I left her there.”
“Thank you. That’ll be all.” He walks away as Leo gets out of the car.
Leo takes one look at the house and shakes his head. “You know what? I think I need a drink somewhere else. I’ll see you later.” He promptly gets into the car again and drives away.
I purse my lips and tuck my hand into my pocket for a moment before striding toward the front door. It swings open, and I enter, my steps echoing on the marble floor of the grand foyer. The house, centuries old, was worth a fortune when my father first made an offer to buy it. Then, the owner, an old pakhan, tried his hand at upstaging my father after a short-lived attempt at a takeover.
His penance was the house and his dignity.
As I approach the living room, I hear muttering and angry heels pacing. I pause, allowing myself a moment to imagine what an angry Isabella will look like when she’s not hanging over my shoulder.
I liked her there. More than I should.
It was brief, but the memory of her body, soft and warm even as she kicked and screamed, has lingered long enough for it to leave an imprint. The swell of her ass in my palm, round and firm beneath the thin layers of silk, made it impossible to not want to grip tighter. The scent of her skin, a mix of floral perfume and adrenaline, clung to me long after I threw her into the car.
If she were some other woman and under different circumstances—
I barely duck out of the way as a shoe comes flying in my direction.
“You bastard!” she spits. “You—you killed my husband! And you kidnapped me.”
“If you’re recounting the events of the past couple hours,” I drawl, “then yes. But I suggest you focus on what’s happening now.”
My response throws her off, and she goes quiet for a moment, thrusting her hands onto her hips. She’s quick to recover, though. “Focus on what? The fact that you intend to marry me and make me pregnant?”
I nod, heading over to the leather sofa and sitting. “Yes, Isabella,” I say without mincing words. “We’re going to get married, and then I expect one—” My brows furrow. “No, two children from you.”
“H-how—” she stutters. “How could you say something like that? Marriage isn’t something you force on a person!”
I rise slowly, letting the weight of the moment stretch between us. Every movement I make is deliberate, controlled, and poised. Because I’m nothing if not calculated. Isabella’s eyes track me as I close the distance, and though she doesn’t back away, I can see her bracing.
My gaze locks on hers, darkening with every step. “Isn’t that what you were about to do?” I say, my voice low, sharp, and dangerous. “Marry a man your father forced on you? An arranged marriage. One you didn’t choose. One you were willing to accept for the sake of loyalty. Duty.”
She inhales sharply, her spine stiffening with fury. “At least he didn’t kidnap me,” she says, her voice trembling with rage. “At least he didn’t murder someone in front of me and drag me out of a church like some…like some prize.”
“Tossed over my shoulder,” I correct her. “I didn’t drag you. But I know you want answers, so I’ll give them to you.”
I let the suspense build, watching her frustration gather as she picks at her nails. “Your father broke a blood pact,” I say as my hands clench at my sides, filled with anger at the betrayal. “Marco Ricci betrayed my father and killed him. He’s gone underground, so you’ll pay the price of his crime.”
I reach out, brushing my thumb across her cheek. She shivers, and her eyelashes flutter. “So, Isabella Ricci, you’re right about one thing. You are my prize.”
“I’m never going to marry you,” Isabella hisses as I step away, leaving her alone in the living room. “I’d rather die before I let you slip a ring on my finger. You monster!”
Looking over my shoulder, I note the way her hands tremble as she holds them together. I chuckle. “We’ll see. Isabella Ricci. We’ll see.”
Marco Ricci broke a blood pact, which means he’s now in my debt. One way or another, I intend to be paid in full.
