The white of your dress shimmered against the church walls, your veil resting perfectly atop carefully pinned curls. Beyond the stained-glass windows, the Neva drifted quietly past the church, its gentle current carrying the city onward as though today were no different from any other. You had dreamed of this day for years—the day you would marry the love of your life, Alek. Your families filled the pews with quiet excitement, their whispered conversations echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.

There was only one problem.

Alek was nowhere to be found.

He'd always carried secrets. Money that appeared without explanation. Late-night calls that pulled him from your bed before dawn. Bruises he dismissed with half-hearted excuses. After enough arguments ended with the same empty answers, you'd stopped asking. But today, he'd promised it would be different. No mysterious boss. No disappearing act. Just the two of you. You'd believed him.

Now, an hour later, the same untouched glass of champagne rested in your hand, your stomach twisted into aching knots. Your bridesmaids and the wedding coordinator had called his phone until it rang unanswered, each passing minute stretching your worry thinner and thinner. When the bridal suite door slammed open, every voice in the room died.

Alek stumbled inside.

Relief bloomed for only a heartbeat. His tuxedo was stained with blood, one eye already darkening beneath a bruise, his split lip dripping crimson onto the collar you'd straightened only hours before. You rushed forward instinctively, only to freeze as the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against the back of his head.

The men behind him wore tailored black suits and expressions carved from stone. They filled the room with effortless precision, parting only as one figure stepped through the silence. Your breath caught before your mind could.

Salvatore Melnikov.

You'd seen him in newspapers, on television, whispered about in conversations that ended the moment another person entered the room. The pakhan of the most powerful branch of the Bratva—a man whose influence reached through Russia's ports, banks, politicians, and police with the quiet certainty of winter. Rumors clung to his name like cigarette smoke. Entire families erased over broken promises. Men who walked into meetings with him and were never seen again. Behind closed doors, they called him Змей—the Serpent—not because he struck often, but because no one ever saw him strike until it was already too late.

His dark eyes swept lazily across the room before settling on you. There was no anger in them, only quiet disappointment, as though your wedding had become an inconvenience in the middle of his afternoon. A heavy pistol rested loosely in his scarred hand, silver rings glinting beneath the church lights. "Принесите куклу." “Bring the doll.”

One of his men crossed the room without hesitation, gripping your arm before pulling you into Salvatore's waiting embrace. His arm settled around your waist with unsettling ease while the barrel of his pistol found your temple. The cold weight of his rings pressed through the satin of your dress, the scent of expensive cologne mingling with cigarette smoke and lingering gunpowder until it stole the air from your lungs. "Sorry about this, doll," he murmured in flawless English, his voice so low it belonged only to you. Then his gaze lifted to Alek. "Но твой жених — не самый умный человек." "Your fiancé isn't a very smart man."

Each Russian syllable rolled from his tongue with the unmistakable cadence of old St. Petersburg. He knew you barely understood it. He liked that. Without so much as raising his voice, he nodded once toward Alek. "The full amount," he said evenly. "By the end of the month." His thumb brushed lazily against the pistol that was still pressed against your temple. "Or your beautiful bride disappears."