The Russian Bodyguard: A Dark Mafia Romance (Krasnov Brothers Book 3)

by Rie Warren

  “It is good.” She drew back. “Maksim will be good to you.”

  “You think? He hates me as much as I can’t stand to be around him.”

  “Hate is just opposite side of love.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Nyet. Hate is goryachev. Hot, yes? Sexy.” A naughty glint entered her eyes. “Hate, love. Bah. All same. Passion.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. In fact, I wasn’t sure about anything.

  I caressed the fine embroidery of the veil, feeling between my fingertips all the time and care she’d put into the beautiful masterpiece. “I bet he didn’t even remember to get wedding rings.”

  She snapped her fingers against my forehead. “No pout you. Gives you wrinkles.”

  Seriously Baba?

  She clapped her hands together then stood to leave. “Rings? What matter does that make. You keep husband happy in bed and happy in kitchen. I didn’t teach you to cook for nothing, da?”

  Oh my god.

  I was never ever telling my grandmother I’d already prepared blinis from scratch for the man.

  “Promise me you’re changing out of the Crocs before the ceremony,” I admonished just before she left the room.

  Hey, if she could make me paranoid about wrinkles, I could insist she wear proper shoes to my wedding.

  With the beautifully crafted veil the final piece to my wedding outfit, I steadied my fraught nerves. Standing, I smoothed down the skirts of the sumptuous gown, inspecting myself one last time. I left the apartment on my own, holding a bouquet of black peonies.

  At the top of the spiral staircase, I counted to ten and then to twenty.

  My extremely high heels clicked on the steps as I descended, and I half hoped Maksim would flake out on this whole getting hitched thing.

  Maybe I could just take a head-dive off the stairs?

  No such thing happened, and I composed myself completely by the time I reached the last winding turn.

  Papa waited, an ivory peony in the breast pocket of his suit, and he took my hand.

  He turned toward me and, while Lucia arranged the long, feathery train behind me, Papa kissed both sides of my face then my forehead through the veil.

  My throat wobbled and my feet faltered.

  “Ready, Sashenka?” he asked.

  “Da.” My voice rang clear despite my anxiousness, and I girded myself once more. “Let’s do this thing.”

  As we rounded the corner, the main floor of the nightclub came into view. Lucia had done the place up to absolute perfection. A few rows of glossy black chairs faced the makeshift altar. Fronds of greenery feathered out of urns accented in gold. More of the peonies—deep, rich, dark reddish purple in color—cascaded in glorious displays from tall, sleek vases.

  Papa patted my hand that lay in the crook of his elbow, grumbling lowly, “You make my heart big, moya doch.”

  My father following up on Baba’s grandmotherly assurances by saying daughter of mine was enough to start the waterworks again, but I didn’t want to crumble in front of Maksim.

  My eyes rose and rose, and something else stuck in my heart when I saw him waiting beside the priest at the end of the aisle.

  Maksim.

  His sterling eyes didn’t move from me, not even to sweep over to Valeria who looked so pure and pretty standing next to Baba.

  He wore the midnight blue suit I preferred, but probably only because the black ones were at the cleaners.

  Darkly handsome. Deeply striking. Downright magnetic. Usually so aloof, he now watched me coming toward him with a possessive gleam in his irises as his gaze coasted over me.

  Insecurity suddenly swamped me.

  I couldn’t help but think he was getting the short end of the stick. I was a lot to handle, headstrong, hotheaded. I liked the finer things in life and made no bones about it, and I’d been the bane of his existence for as long as I could remember.

  In essence, I knew he wished he was getting saddled with anyone but me.

  Those frayed nerves began unraveling faster.

  I just hoped to make it through my vows without embarrassing Papa.

  When I stood in front of Maksim, I noted the suit was actually new, tailored perfectly to his tall frame, and definitely not off-the-rack.

  He’d made an effort, which choked me up even more.

  I felt the depth of his silver gaze penetrating the fine filigree of my veil. And I could not curtail my tongue when he grinned.

  “I’m only getting married once. And you’ll regret this for the rest of your life, perhot-podzalupnaya.”

  6

  Maksim

  YURY HAD PUT A gun to my head.

  The gun being his daughter.

  “I’m only getting married once. And you’ll regret this for the rest of your life.” And then Sasha resorted to her favorite curse, which made my lips twitch.

  Peehole dandruff.

  We’d see who regretted this more. Once she was my wife, I would own her body and soul. And I’d start by putting an end to her swearing.

  Two distinct impulses coursed through me with Sasha’s cutting words. I wanted to blister her ass in the gorgeous gown or kiss the lipstick off her face that was seductively hidden by the stunning veil.

  In the end, I smiled and gathered her hand in mine, noting how her fingers trembled.

  Bending my head so my lips hovered near her ear, I mentioned, “I was only going to say you look beautiful, Sashenka.”

  Well, that certainly shut her up.

  For once the ensemble she wore was one I deemed wholly appropriate for the occasion. And then some.

  Facing her now as she stood in the incredible gown, I couldn’t stop remembering the way she’d looked when I interrupted her while she tried on dresses.

  Her luscious curves barely contained by the embroidered corset that cinched her already slim waist, she had stolen the breath from my lungs and shot fire to my cock.

  She’d assumed an air of timidity at the time, almost as though she felt shy? Which couldn’t be possible . . . could it?

  Her unlikely reaction to being so unclothed in front of me prompted another startling response from me. Male heat and primal possessiveness pounded right through my body, and I’d taken my rightful place among all the lace and ruffles just so I could unnerve her more.

  Just so I could enjoy the sight of her gorgeous breasts pushed up by the corset and the thickness of her firm ass covered in the satin panties.

  I had never doubted that she was attractive.

  Now, in this precise moment, there was no doubting she was beautiful. A worldly woman. Not simply a spoiled brat.

  In a million years, I could not adequately describe the gown she wore.

  I’d seen her from the back briefly—far too fucking briefly—and the top part of the dress darted to the middle of her spine, the bottom half fitting her lush ass like a lace glove. At the front, the bodice dipped down as well to reveal the ripeness of her breasts. Below, the gown fanned out behind her, yards and yards of fragile lace forming a fluttering train.

  Blyad.

  There were many things to appreciate about the gown.

  There were some things to appreciate about Sasha Zolotov.

  She was witty. She was not without wonder at the world, which made me feel less jaded at times.

  She was smart but too impulsive, and she usually got my blood up very quickly.

  I had been surprised to see her appear at all at the top of the aisle, her hand perched on Yury’s arm.

  As printsessa of the Bratva, in any other circumstances, she would have had her pick of a mate had she wanted to get married.

  Without Yury’s pressure, she never would’ve agreed to marry a common gutter kid like me instead of someone with a long mafia pedigree.

  I was lowborn. Worse than that, my parents were addicts who’d abandoned my brothers and me, which showed just how unworthy I was.

  Yet, as I stared down into the beauty of her eyes, her fingers quivered anew w
ithin my grasp.

  When my next smile came quick and dirty, Sasha drew her hand back sharply. “Let’s just get this farce over with, huh?”

  In a moment of insight, I imagined neither one of us was ever going to get over this. However, the ceremony began without further delay, and all who’d risen when Sasha walked down the aisle settled back into their seats.

  When prompted, I said my vows, and they were the old-fashioned ones. Man and wife.

  Even behind the veil, I saw the icy glint of Sasha’s irises. That I had not said husband and wife nettled her, which was what I’d been going for.

  She, in turn, spoke on command. She repeated her promises to me, her voice lower and smoky-toned, or that could have been the tears gathering in her eyes and clogging her throat. Not because she was touched by the ceremony, but because she’d been forced into this position.

  Well, that made two of us.

  Did not matter. We would finish this ceremony properly.

  My face grave, I nodded to the priest, and he poised little statuettes of patron saints above both our heads. Then Sasha’s gaze flew to mine, and her hand rose to her throat.

  “You remembered the tradition?” Her voice warbled softly.

  And mine grew thick. “Da.”

  The saints placed away, the priest then crowned us both in fragrant fresh garlands per the orthodox ritual, and Sasha wavered slightly in her high heels.

  When I reached out to steady her, she clasped a hand over mine, warmth beginning to radiate from her.

  Leaning toward her, I whispered roughly at her ear, “Now we are finishing the wedding the American way, Sashenka.”

  Kirill came forward with the rings, which I had chosen with tremendous care. Da, everyone from this point forward would know she was married.

  I had also purchased an engagement ring because I would neglect no ritual—American, Russian Orthodox, or otherwise.

  I took my turn first, and I took pleasure in marking her outwardly as mine.

  Her wrist grasped between the circle of my much larger fingers, I intoned deeply to drive the point home, “Alexandra Yuryevna Krasnova, you belong to me now.”

  She was a Zolotov no more as surely as my jewelry shined upon her finger.

  The ring that symbolized our very short betrothal was of darkest black gold with the biggest, finest red ruby. Likewise, our wedding bands were of black, like the flowers she’d chosen.

  I could not have picked anything less than extraordinary for a woman like her.

  With a gasp, she pulled her hand free to regard the flashing dazzle of the ruby and the matte black gold.

  Then she wet her ruby red lips with the pink tip of her tongue. I could see the slow action behind the filmy veil and wanted to feel the same on all parts of my body.

  Her hand quivered no longer when she plucked up the last ring, the biggest ring, from Kirill’s outstretched palm. “We’ll just see who owns who in the end, Maksim.”

  She snugged the band home on my finger, cursing under breath when she had to struggle past my middle knuckle that had been broken more than once during a fistfight.

  I enjoyed her struggle immensely.

  Would enjoy it so much more in bed.

  The idea that this princess who’d been such a torment was suddenly mine made my fucking blood hum right through my veins and down to my immediately interested cock.

  Nine tenths of the law was possession.

  Ha. America was beginning to grow on me.

  Especially when Sasha looked ready to step down for felicitations or a great big flute of champagne, and I slid an arm around my wife’s waist and drew her back.

  Drew her to me until our bodies brushed together.

  There was no mistaking the darkness of my tone when I warned, “Uh uhn. We have one more American tradition to take care of, Sashenka.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She tried to break free.

  She quickly found my hold intractable.

  “Indeed. I am.”

  Keeping my arm banded around her slender waist, I gently raised the veil, arranging the long embellished lengths beneath her corona of garland.

  Then I simply looked at her face.

  Da. The red lips were sumptuous.

  Her long lashes were feathery as she arched a look at me that was the farthest thing from coy.

  Her blush—so unusual for her—was in place though. Heightened color splashed across her cheeks, and I knew the hue had nothing to do with makeup.

  Drawing her into the lee of my larger body, I expected her to drag sharp nails down my face. To lash out with a quick kick to my shin. To knee me in my balls.

  Instead, Sasha arched a little in my arms, and the movement was purely feminine. In an instant, everyone else seemed to melt away. I bent over her, sweeping both hands up to span her sides, fingers lingering just below her breasts.

  Dominating her smaller frame, I slid my nose up the silken skin of her neck. I imbibed her scent.

  Her hands moved then, fingers indeed clawing into my forearms but not to fight her way out of my embrace but to pull me closer.

  There were no other sounds as I pursed my lips at her sweet chin then licked her lower lip.

  Her eyes flared to mine then. “Do it, Maksim.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The grumble started low in my chest then meshed into her mouth as I took her lips. Her body arched more—breasts striving against my chest—when I licked my wicked way into satiny heat and sleekness.

  With her mewl captured between us, Sasha was no shrinking violet.

  She met my rightful kiss with a hunger of her own, and her hands stole up my arms to my shoulders then fastened within my hair.

  The quick flash of fire burst into flames, and I only withdrew when I had her arched so far backward, my next thought was of plundering her body right there in the middle of The Hammer and the Sickle in front of everyone.

  I enjoyed the sight of her swollen, well kissed lips for a moment. Then I turned her outward on my arm to greet our family as one.

  Ever the socialite, Sasha ignored the wide-eyed looks of surprise coming from all directions. She took a second to steady legs that I bet had turned to jelly then let me hand her down from the altar to be engulfed in congratulations.

  The very air shook with shouts and whistles.

  My bones shook too.

  That kiss struck something deep within me. I’d meant to claim the entitled wench.

  She’d claimed me right back.

  I would not be surprised if, one of these days, she drew blood from me. As deep and luscious red as that ruby upon her finger and the red of her lips.

  The instant she took her hand from mine, Baba engulfed her in her bosom.

  The grandmother’s hug rocked her from side to side, and I was close enough to hear Sasha say, “Are you happy now?”

  “Happy, da. But wedding is not long enough. And no kidnapping of the bride. Bah.”

  I cut in between the two, gathering Baba for a hug of my own before I squinted at the plump-faced woman. “To mention a kidnapping under these circumstances is not funny.”

  “Not funny. But tradition has place.”

  She had a point. But, blyad, I did too. Sasha had already been abducted once and that was just by a bunch of fucking Boston street rats under the orders of Oleg, the suka seeking to start a new vendetta.

  Passed from Baba’s arms to handshakes and back claps from Arkady and Kirill, we made the rounds of the small gathering. After more hugs from Jo and Lucia, I grudgingly exchanged fist bumps with the O’Sullivan brothers.

  Just then, Sasha returned to me, still flushed and kiss-swollen, eyes dazzling. Eyes that slid to Lucky. That Irish motherfucker. Despite the fact he was head of his bloodline and their organization, he didn’t have any better breeding than me, and I knew that shit for a fucking fact.

  I coerced Sasha’s attention back to me, coasting a finger along her collarbone bared within the deep neckline of the wedding gown. />
  I didn’t coarsely cup her ass or grab her to me when her gaze clashed with mine.

  I merely stepped into her space, eclipsing her with my body and my might.

  Tipping her head back so her face tilted toward me and no one else, I traced the soft line of her neck.

  My voice throbbed lethally unlike my ghosting touches when I said in a low undertone, “From this point forward you follow my rules, wife.”

  Pale eyes turning glacial, she recoiled sharply. Just as she was about to pop those pretty lips open to lay a tongue lashing on me, I grinned viciously.

  “I mean it, Sasha. And I do not want to hear another word from you about it.”

  Her gaze grew troubled, a light frown marring her forehead. It was as if she thought once we were married we’d go back to the same dynamic with her the brat and me simply the bodyguard.

  I was so very happy to prove her wrong.

  Lips thinned in the tightest line, she twirled around—the magnificent train of her gown sweeping across my shoes—and strutted off in the other direction. At least she hadn’t talked back to me.

  She immediately made her way to the champagne. That was allowed, as long as she didn’t leave my sight.

  I accepted a few more handshakes and Yury ambled over.

  Pleasure lightened his heavy features when he greeted me, calling me son. He didn’t impart any wise words about his daughter, probably because he was grateful to have the troublesome wench off his hands. No, the pakhan simply grinned and offered me shot after shot of vodka, the alcohol releasing some of the coiled pressure from inside of me.

  After I had enough vodka lubricating my veins, I glanced toward the bar area, seeking out Sasha.

  The damn female had left my sight.

  As I scanned the club and even marched toward the restrooms, I realized she was nowhere to be found.

  “Easy, brother.” Kirill came up beside me and clamped a hand on my shoulder. “She just headed upstairs with Jo and Lucia, talking about changing into her reception couture.”

  I grumbled something but eased my stance. After all, I was interested in seeing this reception couture especially now that I owned the body within it. She better hurry her ass back, though, because I wasn’t done making sure she knew her place as my mate.