Aria sat in the back of Viktor's Bentley, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white.
"Breathe," Katya murmured beside her, but there was no warmth in the instruction. "Fainting would be... inconvenient."
Through the tinted windows, Aria could see the crowd gathering on the cathedral steps. Men in expensive suits with suspicious bulges under their jackets. Women dripping in diamonds and designer gowns. All of them there to witness her public execution disguised as a wedding.
"How many people know this is fake?" Aria asked, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.
"None of them," Katya replied. "As far as they're concerned, you are Viktor's chosen bride. The woman who captured the heart of the most dangerous man in Brighton Beach." Her smile was razor-sharp. "Congratulations on your stellar performance."
The car door opened, and Viktor appeared, devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo that probably cost more than Aria's yearly rent. He extended his hand, and for a moment, their eyes met through the window.
Something flickered in his dark gaze
Regret? Anticipation? Hunger?
"Showtime," he said quietly.
Aria placed her hand in his, feeling the calluses on his fingers, the warmth of his skin. The moment she stepped out of the car, the crowd fell silent. She could feel their eyes assessing, judging, calculating her worth.
"Smile," Viktor murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "You're supposed to be happy."
"I'm supposed to be a lot of things," she whispered back, but she smiled anyway. The cathedral's interior was a feast of gold and incense, Orthodox icons staring down at them with painted eyes that seemed to see straight through her soul. The ceremony would be conducted in Russian, which meant Aria would have no idea what promises she was making until it was too late.
As they walked down the aisle, Viktor's hand on her lower back possessive and warm, Aria caught glimpses of the guests. Dangerous men who looked like they could kill with their bare hands. Women who smiled like sharks scenting blood. And at the front, near the altar, an elderly man with kind eyes who seemed oddly out of place among the predators.
"Who's that?" she whispered to Viktor.
He followed her gaze. "Father Richard. He's been with our family for forty years. He baptized me, heard my first confession." Viktor's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "He's the only truly good man you'll meet today."
Something in his tone made Aria look at him sharply, but Viktor's face had already closed off again, the moment of vulnerability gone.
They reached the altar, and Father Richard began the ceremony in rich, melodious Russian. Aria stood there, understanding nothing, as Viktor's responses rumbled beside her. When the priest turned to her expectantly, she could only nod and hope she wasn't accidentally agreeing to sign over her soul along with her freedom.
The moment came for the rings. Viktor's fingers were steady as he slipped the band onto her finger, a simple gold band that felt heavier than it should. When it was her turn, she noticed his hands trembling slightly.
The Devil of Brighton Beach has shaking hands, she thought with surprise.
As she slid the ring onto his finger, Viktor's eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, the cathedral full of criminals and killers faded away. There was something raw in his gaze, something that looked almost like...
"Ty mozhesh' potselovat' nevestu," Father Richard announced with a gentle smile.
"You may kiss the bride," Viktor translated quietly, his voice rough.
Aria's heart hammered against her ribs as Viktor's hands came up to frame her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as he leaned down.
"This is just for show," he whispered against her lips.
"I know," she whispered back.
But when his mouth claimed hers, there was nothing fake about the electricity that shot through her veins. Nothing pretend about the way her knees went weak or the small sound of surprise that escaped her throat. Viktor's kiss was claiming, possessive, but underneath the dominance was something else.
Something that tasted like desperation and need.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. Viktor's eyes were dark with something dangerous, and Aria felt her cheeks burning.
The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, but Aria barely heard them. All she could focus on was the way Viktor was looking at her, like he was seeing her for the first time.
"Well," he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. "That was... unexpected."
......…
The grandfather clock in the corner of the ballroom chimed eleven as the last of the wedding guests finally began filtering out. Aria's cheeks ached from maintaining her perfect bride smile for the past four hours, accepting congratulations from men who looked at her like she was fresh meat and women who assessed her with the cold calculation of predators.
"Such a lovely ceremony," cooed Mrs. Petrov, one of Viktor's associates' wives, her diamond necklace catching the chandelier light. "You make a beautiful couple."
"Thank you," Aria managed, her voice steady despite the way the woman's eyes lingered on her throat as if imagining a noose there.
Viktor's hand tightened on her waist, a possessive gesture that had become as constant as breathing throughout the evening. Every conversation, every introduction, every moment had been punctuated by his touch. A hand on her lower back. Fingers trailing across her shoulders. Arms encircling her waist. Each touch a claim, a reminder of ownership.
She'd caught him watching her when he thought she wasn't looking, his dark eyes unreadable but intense. There was something calculating in his gaze. He stared directly into her soul.
The kind of gaze that made her stomach flutter in a way she refused to acknowledge.
"How long do you think she'll last?" she'd overheard one man whisper to another during the dinner course.
"Pretty little thing like that? Month, maybe two if she's lucky," came the reply, followed by crude laughter.
Aria had felt Viktor stiffen beside her, though his expression hadn't changed. His fingers had pressed more firmly into her waist, and she'd seen the way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.
Now, as the evening wound down, an elderly man with kind eyes approached them. Unlike the others, he seemed genuinely pleased to see Viktor, and there was no menace in his smile when he looked at Aria.
"Congratulations, my boy," he said warmly, embracing Viktor with the familiarity of long friendship. "She's lovely."
"Thank you, Uncle Dimitri," Viktor replied, and Aria caught the note of genuine affection in his voice. "Aria, this is Dimitri Volkov. He's been like family to us."
"A pleasure, my dear," Dimitri said, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "You have your grandfather's eyes, you know. Those strong eyes."
Aria's breath caught. "You knew my grandfather?"
Something flickered across Viktor's face, too quick to interpret.
"Uncle Dimitri knows many people," he said smoothly. "Perhaps we should….."
"Such a shame what happened to old Antonio," Dimitri continued, seemingly oblivious to Viktor's tension. "He was a good man, despite what others said. Family meant everything to him."
The blood drained from Aria's face. Nobody had called her grandfather Antonio in years. Most people didn't even know his real name, only the Americanized version he'd used in his later years.
"I think Uncle Dimitri has had too much vodka," Viktor said, his voice carrying a warning edge as he moved closer to the older man.
"Perhaps," Dimitri chuckled, but his eyes remained sharp as they studied Aria's face. "Forgive an old man's ramblings, dear girl. Enjoy your happiness while you can."
As he walked away, Aria turned to Viktor, questions burning on her tongue, but before she could speak, another guest approached—a younger man with cold eyes and an expensive suit.
"Beautiful ceremony, Viktor," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Your bride is... exquisite. I imagine you're eager to... consummate the union." His gaze raked over Aria in a way that made her skin crawl. "Nothing quite like breaking in a new wife, eh?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Viktor's hand on Aria's waist became steel, and when he stepped forward, she felt the leashed violence radiating from him like heat from a forge.
"Alexei," Viktor said quietly, and his voice carried more menace than any shout could have. "I think you've misunderstood something."
"Have I?" Alexei's confidence wavered slightly.
"My wife is not a horse to be broken." Viktor's smile was sharp as a blade. "She is mine to protect. And anyone who speaks of her with such... disrespect... will find themselves answering to me personally."
The threat hung in the air like smoke. Alexei's face went pale, and he stammered an apology before hurrying away.
"Well," Viktor said, turning back to Aria with that dangerous smile still playing at his lips. "I think it's time we retired for the evening."
......….
The walk through the mansion's corridors felt endless. Their footsteps echoed off marble floors, past oil paintings that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries. Aria's wedding dress rustled with each step, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence between them.
She could feel Viktor beside her, tall and imposing in his black tuxedo, but she couldn't bring herself to look at him. The weight of what was expected pressed down on her like a physical thing.
"The portraits," she said finally, desperate to fill the silence. "Your family?"
"Some of them." Viktor's voice was neutral. "Others are acquisitions. I collect beautiful things."
There was something in the way he said it that made her glance at him sideways, but his profile revealed nothing.
They passed a particularly striking painting.It was a landscape that seemed to glow with inner light.
Despite everything, Aria couldn't help but pause.
"Arkhip Kuindzhi," she murmured. "Moonlit Night on the Dnieper. I've only seen reproductions."
Viktor stopped, studying her face. "You know art."
"I'm an artist. Or was." The words came out more bitter than she'd intended.
"Was?"
"Hard to paint when your hands are chained."
"Your hands aren't chained," Viktor observed.
Aria held up her left hand, where the wedding ring caught the hallway light. "Aren't they?"
Viktor was quiet for a long moment. "That ring represents many things. Chains aren't one of them."
"What does it represent then?"
"Protection. Status. Belonging."
"And if I don't want to belong?"
Viktor's dark eyes met hers. "That's not your choice to make anymore."
They reached the master bedroom, and Viktor opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him. The room was opulent—all dark wood and rich fabrics, dominated by a massive four-poster bed that seemed to loom like a threat.
.......
Viktor moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself three fingers of vodka. He didn't offer any to Aria, and she didn't ask. Instead, she moved to the tall windows that overlooked the gardens, still visible in the moonlight.
"Beautiful view," she said, though her voice was hollow.
"I thought you'd appreciate it." Viktor loosened his tie, the silk sliding through his fingers like a snake. "You'll be seeing a lot of it."
Aria turned from the window to find him watching her with that same unreadable expression from the reception.
In the dim lighting of the bedroom, he looked less like a civilized businessman and more like what he really was. A predator.
"I suppose you're expecting me to make this easy for you," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.
Viktor set down his glass and shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over a chair with careful precision. "I'm expecting nothing. But I'm taking everything that's mine."
The words hung between them like a gauntlet thrown down. Aria felt her heart hammering against her ribs, but she lifted her chin defiantly.
"I won't be your willing victim."
"I don't need you willing." Viktor's voice was soft, which somehow made it more terrifying. "You're mine."
He moved toward her, not quickly, not threateningly, but with the fluid grace of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. Each step was measured, calculated, giving her time to anticipate what was coming.
Aria backed against the window, the cool glass pressing through the silk of her wedding dress. "Don't."
Viktor stopped just close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous.
"Don't what?" he asked quietly.
"Don't pretend this is anything other than rape."
The word hung in the air between them like a slap. Viktor's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.
"Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?" Aria's voice cracked slightly. "You've taken everything from me. My freedom, my money, my life. Now you want my body too. What would you call it?"
Viktor was quiet for a long moment, studying her face in the moonlight streaming through the window.
"I would call it marriage," he said finally.
"This isn't marriage. It's ownership."
"In my world, they're often the same thing."
"Well, I'm not from your world." The words came out as a sob, and Aria hated herself for the weakness. She'd held it together all day, through the ceremony and the reception and the parade of criminals offering their congratulations, but now, faced with the reality of what came next, her composure finally cracked.
But they weren't tears of fear or despair. They were tears of pure, burning rage.
"I won't be broken by you," she whispered fiercely, even as tears tracked down her cheeks. "I won't disappear. I won't become some ghost haunting your house, too terrified to speak or think or breathe without permission."
Viktor reached up slowly, telegraphing his movement, and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
"I don't want you broken," he said quietly.
"Then what do you want?"
Viktor's thumb traced along her jawline, and for a moment, his mask slipped entirely. What she saw underneath wasn't the cold, calculating crime lord, but something raw and almost vulnerable.
"I want you to choose to stay."
Aria stared at him, searching his face for deception, for the trap hidden in his words. "That will never happen."
"We'll see."
Something in his tone made her study his face more carefully. The moonlight carved harsh shadows across his features, highlighting the aristocratic nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the surprisingly full lips that had claimed hers at the altar just hours ago.
"I don't understand you," she whispered.
"You will." Viktor stepped back, giving her space to breathe. "Sleep. Tomorrow we begin building our life together."
"I don't want a life with you."
"I know." Viktor moved to the dresser, pulling out a T-shirt and sleep pants. "But it's the life you have now."
He disappeared into what she assumed was the bathroom, leaving her alone in the vast bedroom. Aria slumped against the window, the adrenaline that had been carrying her finally starting to ebb.
When Viktor emerged ten minutes later, he'd changed into the casual clothes and looked almost... normal. Human. It was somehow more unsettling than his earlier predatory elegance.
"The bed is yours," he said, nodding toward the four-poster monstrosity.
Aria eyed it suspiciously. "And you?"
"I have work to do." He moved to a leather chair positioned near the window, settling into it with a book she hadn't noticed him retrieve.
"You're not going to..."
"Not tonight." Viktor's voice was matter-of-fact. "You need time to adjust."
"Adjust to what? Being your prisoner?"
"Adjust to being my wife."
Aria wanted to argue, to rage at him about the difference, but exhaustion was starting to creep in around the edges of her anger. The wedding dress suddenly felt impossibly heavy, the corset stays digging into her ribs.
"I need to change," she said finally.
Viktor gestured toward the walk-in closet without looking up from his book. "Katya left appropriate clothing."
The closet was larger than her entire former apartment, filled with clothes she'd never chosen and would never have afforded. She found a simple nightgown. It was modest by most standards but somehow feeling far too intimate for the circumstances.She abruptly changed to the emerald silk night gown.
When she emerged, Viktor was still reading, but she could feel his awareness of her like a physical thing. She eyed the bed, then the chair where he sat, then made her decision.
There was a chaise lounge positioned near the opposite window. Aria grabbed one of the throw pillows from the bed and curled up on it, pulling her knees to her chest.
"You'll be uncomfortable," Viktor observed without looking up.
"I'll manage."
"The bed is large enough for both of us without... complications."
"I'm fine where I am."
Viktor finally looked at her, something unreadable crossing his features. "As you wish."
Silence settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Aria closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but every nerve in her body was hyperaware of Viktor's presence. She could hear the rustle of pages as he read, the soft sound of his breathing, the occasional creak of leather as he shifted in his chair.
Hours passed. The moonlight moved across the floor, and still neither of them slept.
"You knew my grandfather," Aria said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Viktor's reading stopped. "Dimitri talks too much when he drinks."
"How well did you know him?"
"Well enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting tonight." Viktor's voice carried a note of finality.
But Aria's mind was racing now, connecting dots she hadn't even realized were there. Viktor's collection of art. His knowledge of her background. The way Dimitri had spoken about her grandfather with such familiarity.
"You have beautiful pieces," she said carefully. "Your art collection. Some of them look... Russian. Old Russian."
"I appreciate beauty in all its forms."
"Even stolen beauty?"
Viktor's laugh was low and dark. "All beauty is stolen from somewhere, Aria. The question is whether you're brave enough to take it."
"Is that what you did with me? Stole me?"
"I won." Viktor finally looked at her, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "There's a difference."
"Won me from whom?"
"From a life that was slowly killing you." Viktor closed his book, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "When was the last time you had a full meal, Aria? When was the last time you slept in a bed instead of that ratty couch in your studio? When was the last time you created art instead of serving overpriced coffee to people who wouldn't notice if you disappeared tomorrow?"
Each word hit like a physical blow because they were true. Her life before Viktor had been a slow spiral into desperation, each day a battle just to survive.
"That was my choice to make," she said stubbornly.
"Was it? Or were you just too proud to ask for help?"
"I don't need help."
"Everyone needs help, little artist. The difference is whether you accept it gracefully or wait for someone to force it on you."
"You call this help?"
"I call it salvation." Viktor's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "You have your grandfather's pride, you know. It's going to get you in trouble."
Aria's breath caught. "You did know him. Really know him."
But Viktor had already turned away, effectively ending the conversation. "Sleep, Aria. Tomorrow we have appearances to maintain."
She wanted to press him, to demand answers about her grandfather, about his art collection, about the strange familiarity in his voice when he spoke about her family. But something in his posture warned her off.
Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to quiet her racing thoughts. But sleep remained elusive, and she found herself listening to the sound of Viktor's breathing, wondering what secrets he was keeping and why the mention of her grandfather seemed to affect him so deeply.
The last thing she remembered before finally drifting off was the soft sound of Viktor moving around the room, and the whisper of a blanket being draped over her shoulders.
When she woke near dawn, Viktor was gone, but there was fresh coffee on the nightstand beside her and a note written in elegant script:
Katya will bring you appropriate clothes. We have appearances to maintain. -V
Aria sat up, clutching the blanket around her shoulders, and looked around the room with fresh eyes. In the morning light, she could see details she'd missed the night before. The careful arrangement of art on the walls. The expensive books on the shelves. The locked door she hadn't noticed, partially hidden behind a heavy tapestry.
And on Viktor's desk, barely visible beneath some scattered papers, the corner of what looked like an old photograph.
Her heart began to race as she stood, moving closer to get a better look. But before she could see more, the bedroom door opened and Katya entered, carrying an armload of clothing.
"Good morning, Mrs. Kozlov," she said with cold efficiency. "Time to dress. Viktor is waiting for you at breakfast."
Aria looked once more at the desk, at that tantalizing glimpse of photograph, before following Katya toward the closet.
Whatever secrets Viktor was keeping, she was going to find them.