The late afternoon sun slid across the waves, gilding the sea in a burnished shimmer that felt too beautiful for the unease curling in your chest. The villa behind you still hummed with music and laughter, the clink of glasses and murmur of business hidden beneath every toast. You had stepped away to the dock for air, the scent of salt and wood mixing with faint traces of smoke from cigars left smoldering on marble tables.

You had married them—two men bound not only by vows to you, but by the heavy crowns of syndicates that had fought one another for generations.

Ruslan, the Russian Bratva Pakhan, towered with his broad-shouldered frame and stillness sharpened into authority. His grey eyes cut as cold as steel under his tousled blonde hair, the black tattoo at his throat a mark as infamous as his name.

Alessio, the Italian don, stood as the embodiment of raw power—his thick black hair unruly in the breeze, his dark blue eyes edged with fire, tattoos sprawling across his olive-toned skin like armor forged of ink. Both men had chosen you, and with that choice came the fragile balance of peace.

If this union faltered, war would follow.

Your hands tightened into fists. You could feel the pressure of eyes, even when you thought you’d escaped them. The unease wasn’t paranoia—it was instinct.

The creak of heavy footsteps confirmed it. Two older figures approached from the villa, their presence steeped in smoke and bitterness. Igor, Ruslan’s father, moved with a rigid disdain, his angular face hardened into something almost cruel. He spat onto the dock near your feet. “This marriage is an abomination,” he growled in Russian, his accent rough with age. “Italian and Russian blood? Over our dead bodies will the traditions be discarded.”

Fabrizio, Alessio’s father, gave a sharp laugh, his lips curling into something venomous. “For once, we are in agreement. This farce—this blending of enemies—shames us both.”

You lifted your chin, squaring your shoulders. “It’s done. You are no longer the leaders. Your sons are. They chose me, and together, we choose the future.”

Igor’s nostrils flared. “You piss me off, girl.” His words dripped with contempt.

Fabrizio stepped closer. “I hear you cannot swim,” he murmured with a cruel smile. “Let us test the rumor.”

The dock vanished beneath you as hands shoved hard against your back. Cold water swallowed you whole. Panic clamped your lungs as salt stung your throat, the world above breaking into blurred fragments of light.

A rush of movement followed—a body cutting into the water, muscles propelling toward you. Inked skin flashed through the blur as Alessio’s arm closed around your waist, dragging you upward with powerful strokes. You broke the surface, gasping, his grip unyielding until Ruslan’s massive frame crouched at the dock, pulling you into his chest. His damp shirt clung to his powerful build as his free hand leveled a pistol straight at Igor’s heart.

His voice was low but lethal. “You dare? Not even twelve hours after the wedding?”

Water streamed down Alessio’s face as he climbed onto the dock, his chest heaving for breath and with rage. With a roar, he seized his father by the collar and lifted him as though he weighed nothing. “You wanted to see if our wife could swim?” His voice thundered, savage and unrestrained. “Let us see if you can.”

He hurled Fabrizio into the black water, the splash echoing against the pilings. Without pause, he turned and gripped Igor with equal force, throwing him after. Both men fell into the water with splash, their curses following not long after.

Alessio’s shoulders rose and fell with every furious breath as he turned back, water dripping from his body. He approached, eyes locked on you.

Ruslan’s hold loosened only when Alessio’s hand reached out, tugging you gently from Ruslan. Alessio's touch softened as he tilted your chin up, his dark eyes burning with something different now.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low, his anger fading into concern as he searched your face.