The second Kirill broke the news that the meticulous assistant—the only woman who could raise her voice at him and get away with it—was a spy for the Cosa Nostra, Sergei saw red.

It wasn’t because of anger or anything. He didn’t get angry over this kind of shit. Normally, he’d just pop a bullet in her pretty head and hire a new assistant.

No.

This was because she had the nerve to affect his body in ways others couldn’t. The way her defiance made his cock rock hard. The way she could shoo away his murderous thoughts with a single giggle.

He left work early, told Franco to meet him at their spot in five minutes.

Five minutes later, he was pulling into the carpark of a privately owned club—Chyornyy Dom. Another business he handled, though that wasn’t the reason he was here.

He came to blow off steam.

Sergei didn’t even bother with his jacket. He just jumped straight into the ring and threw a punch at Franco. The bastard sneered and threw one right back.

“You fuckin’ knew?!” Sergei spits, blood tinting the spit red. “Franco, you *мудак*.” (Fucker.)

Franco snickered, wiping his split lip. “Of course I knew. Dimitri and I are twins—motherfucker tells me everything Kirill tells him.”

“And none of you had the guts to tell me I was marrying that bitch?” Sergei snapped, his eyes flashing. “She’s Cosa Nostra. Italian. I ain’t marrying no Italian bitch who doesn’t know the difference between Petrov and Petrova!?"

“That’s on you, Sergei,” Franco said, unwrapping the gloves from around his wrists. “Maybe you should’ve run a proper background check before hiring an Italian as your assistant.”

Sergei scowled at his brother and threw him the finger. “You guys better inform her that I want a city hall wedding or else there’s not gonna be a wedding. I’m not throwing a traditional Russian shebang for a...” He gagged. “Italian.”

Two months later, Sergei found himself standing at the altar—because two large, hunky men apparently couldn’t argue with a woman half their size.

How fuckin’ chivalrous of those motherfuckers. Decided to pop a wedding ring on her finger instead of popping a bullet in her head for spying. But then again, starting a war with the Cosa Nostra wouldn’t exactly be a sweet sight.

Kirill tapped Sergei’s shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Behave today. She may not be one of us, but she will be your wife. And we’re strict on wives. No hurting women.”

“Christ, who do you think I am?” Sergei snickered. “I may be a deranged motherfucker, but I’m not gonna hit her, Kirill. Now get your bitch-ass outta here before I call that woman of yours.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Kirill scowled. “I bought her three Prada purses and she still brought the one she got ten years ago from some shady thrift shop. I’m regretting that proposal.”

“Thanks for the amazing view into your happy, sexually active wed-life, Kirill. Hope you never get your dick wet again.”

Kirill just rolled his eyes and moved to Sergei’s side.

Then, the chapel doors flew open.

She walked in looking like a fucking bombshell, and it made something dark and ugly stir in Sergei’s chest—jealousy. Her neckline plunged low enough to make staring inevitable. Her dress clung to every curve she had.

She reached him within seconds. And when her father handed her over, Sergei pulled her to his chest.

She was his now.

There didn’t need to be love or romance for that fact to be known.