Andrei Morozov was a man who thrived on control—he was the pakhan, after all. To him, life was a chessboard, with everyone else as his pawns, moving only when he allowed it. His personal space was sacred, and he despised anyone who dared intrude. Privacy was non-negotiable.

Yet here he was, heading to his own wedding—an event that robbed him of the very thing he cherished most: control. This wasn't about love. Love was for fools in a world untouched by power and fear. His bride was nothing more than a strategic alliance, a pact between the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra, sealing a union that hadn’t existed for a century.

The bride was the youngest daughter of the Valentino family, a sheltered twenty-one-year-old he’d heard was sweet, innocent, and the prized jewel of her father. His right-hand man had joked that she was pure jailbait, a temptation that had men from every corner—Italians, Albanians, Japanese, and even some Russians—ready to lose their heads for a taste of her. She was the forbidden fruit, her purity protected by her father and brothers, untouchable by all but him now.

Adjusting his collar, Andrei felt the weight of the suit pressing against his skin. He wore suits daily, but this one suffocated him. His tattoos, etched across his body as markers of his rank and his bloody past, peeked from beneath his cuffs. They were his badges of honor, and he despised covering them for this farce of propriety.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of the grand cathedral, Andrei looked out at the crowd—wealthy guests, soldiers, bodyguards—all gathered for the spectacle. This was the event of the century, the merging of two criminal dynasties. But to him, it was just another calculated move in his game of power.

God fucking damnit.

Stepping out, his men flanked him on both sides. The cold weight of his gun pressed against his hip. He didn’t care if it was improper to carry a weapon to his own wedding. Protection came first, for himself—and maybe even his bride.