Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
We’ve had an incredible week here—the younger generation bonding as our parents do their thing.
My parents love Lara. She told me that even though there wasn’t a marriage pact, her mom had secretly always wanted me for her. And it seems that my mom did too. They certainly planned the wedding of the century for us. It’s not big–it’s mostly bratva family with the exception of Gabe Tracie and a few other political guests my parents invited for their business purposes–but it’s lavish and much care went into it.
My mom paid a fortune to rent a five-star “rooftop” restaurant downtown for the night. It’s not actually on the roof because that would be too cold, but we’re on the top floor of a downtown highrise. It has floor-to-ceiling windows along three walls with views of Lake Michigan and Chicago. Their usual American Nouveau cuisine is to die for, but they put together a Russian-inspired menu tonight.
Fresh pale pink and peach roses decorate the space and fairy lights twinkle everywhere.
The five-piece band my mom hired for the event strikes up “Bridal Chorus,” and a lump rises in my throat.
Five months ago, marriage wasn’t anywhere in my realm of possibilities. I wasn’t even interested in having a girlfriend. I was totally dedicated to my mission of controlling everything in Baranov House to keep people safe.
I now realize that’s not possible. Shit happens that’s out of my control. And when it does, it’s not necessarily my fault.
I’m still working on that one, but Lara reminds me of it every time she sees me go into emotional lockdown. Christmas Eve, she asked me to show her the site where Valentina was murdered, and we left roses there. Since then, I felt an unburdening. There was a pressure that was always in my chest that released.
My bride appears in the arched doorway, and my breath stops. Her hair is down in the back, curled into soft waves. A tiara initiates the veil that floats over her dark locks–sheer tulle that floats from her crown to her mid-back.
Her dress is incredible. Strapless and short in the front and tapering down to full length in the back. Her breasts peak out of the top of the crystal and pearled bodice, her waist is snatched, and her legs dazzle with each step she takes. She looks high-fashion and fairytale princess all at once. I didn’t think it was possible, but I fall even more for her.
I swear, every day I fall deeper and deeper in love with this woman. Her softness and her strength. Her courage and her vulnerability. Her confidence and her insistence on being my partner–in all aspects of my life. There’s no hiding.
I love how I’ve learned more about myself and grown through and with her love. I love how she meets me toe to toe. I love the way I can see her micro-emotions, how she doesn’t shrink from the myriad of her feelings. How she tries to get me to own mine.
I adore how I can read her body like a delicious map. How she surrenders to me and trusts me. Respects me. How we delight in each other’s bodies, riding all the edges of pleasure and pain that I show her. I love how our life together is a great exploration where I can let down my guard sometimes.
She holds soft pink and peach roses in her hands as a bouquet.
The guests all stand to watch her float down the aisle, but her gaze locks on mine. Her love shines in her eyes–her choice is clear. A tiny smile, a knowing smile, plays on her lips. Whatever she sees on my face must confirm what she means to me. And she knows she undoes me.
My wife, my beautiful wife, is marrying me for real this time. She’s more than willing.
My bratva uncle Nikolai officiates. I asked him because he’s the kind of guy who can hold space. He has a calm, accepting quality that has always made him a favorite of mine. Since it’s not a real wedding, it doesn’t matter that he’s not a pastor or a judge.
“We are gathered today to celebrate the union of two of our own–Benjamin Baranov and Lara Turgeneva,” he says. “Like many of you here, I remember each of their births. I remember them playing together as tots. Their mothers laughingly plotting their future marriage. And now, years later, through many twists of fate, those lightly-spoken words have become a reality.”
My throat closes.
I can’t wait. I reach for Lara, taking the bouquet from her hand and tossing it behind me as I cradle the side of her face and kiss the hell out of her.
The guests erupt into laughter and cheers.
“Oh…okay.” Nikolai plays it up, pretending to be taken aback. “Looks like we’re skipping ahead. That’s fine. That makes sense. You’re already legally married. What do you need me for, anyway?”