Arranged Mafia Marriage

Chapter 3Felicity

3

Felicity

W hen we land in Las Vegas, the city’s neon lights blink against the desert night sky. Kiril guides me through the private terminal, resting his hand lightly on my lower back once more. The touch makes me shiver, mostly with anxiety but also the smallest whisper of anticipation.

“We’re heading straight to the chapel,” Kiril says, leading me toward another limousine waiting outside.

The wind is strong, blowing sand into my eyes, and I pause to wipe it away. Then I blurt out what’s been on my mind for half the flight, rejecting his earlier statement that there’s no time. “Wait. I want a dress.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A dress?”

“Yes, and photos. We need proof of the wedding, right? For legitimacy? And it’s supposed to be our only…” I trail off lamely.

Kiril studies me for a moment, his gaze making me squirm. “Very well. We have some time, but we can’t wait too long. I know this is overwhelming for you, but it’s for your own protection.”

We climb into the limo, and he directs the driver to a nearby bridal boutique. As we pull up, I turn to Kiril. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “Take your time.”

I find it a little odd that he trusts me not to run away, but that only adds to the legitimacy of his claims. The only person who would suffer if I decided to make a run for it would be me. There’s no way for me to win the game unless I play by Kiril’s cruel new rules.

So, I take a deep breath, mustering up the courage to do the most insane thing imaginable, and I step inside the boutique. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by the sea of white fabric. A saleswoman approaches, her smile bright. “Can I help you find something?”

“I need a wedding dress. Something simple but elegant. I’m getting married tonight,” I say, trying to hide the stress in my voice.

She doesn’t blink, as though accustomed to such requests. She must be, working in Vegas. “Of course. Let’s see what we have.”

We browse through racks of dresses, and I try on several before settling on a sleek, ivory sheath dress with delicate lace sleeves. It hugs my curves in all the right places, making me feel beautiful despite the circumstances. I find myself wondering if Kiril will like it. I should’ve brought him in with me, but he seemed content just waiting in the limo.

As I emerge from the dressing room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. For a moment, I forget why I’m here, briefly lost in the fantasy of a normal wedding. Then reality crashes back, and I blink away the tears that rush to my eyes.

“You look stunning. Your fiancé will be speechless.” She lifts a short veil from a display and arranges it on my head, pinning it in place. “What do you think?”

I force a smile. “Thank you. I’ll take it, and the veil.” I don’t bother to change out of the dress, not worried about superstitions and figuring we’ll head straight to the chapel. I hand over my credit card, trying not to blink at the total and ask if she accidentally rang up two dresses for that price. I’m sure she didn’t, but I just spent half my rent.

Well, no, I guess I didn’t. I won’t have to worry about rent for my Chicago loft anymore, and it doesn’t appear that Kiril is lacking the funds to take care of me.

Back in the limo, Kiril’s looks at me appreciatively. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” I say, smoothing the dress over my lap. “We should get you a new tie. Something colorful to match.”

He arches an eyebrow but agrees, and we make a quick stop at a men’s store. Kiril selects a bright red tie. When he starts to get in the car, he pauses as a young man on a bike approaches.

I try to watch the exchange but can’t see what’s happening until Kiril turns to face me, presenting me with a small bouquet of babies’ breath, white lilies, and a deep crimson rose in the center. “I didn’t expect this.” I take it, discovering they’re real flowers. “Thanks.”

He nods as he gets in. “My assistant arranged it while you were buying the dress and veil. It seemed wrong not to have a bouquet when you were putting forth so much effort.”

“I appreciate it.” I’m sure it’s just a lucky guess, or maybe it’s traditional to use lilies, but I can pretend he somehow knows my favorite flower without it being creepy.

As we approach the chapel, my heart races. This is really happening. I’m about to marry a stranger to save my life and secure my place in a world I never knew existed.

The chapel is more luxurious than I expected, with crystal chandeliers and plush carpeting. A coordinator greets us, all efficiency and fake smiles. “Welcome. Are you ready to begin?”

Kiril nods, his hand finding the small of my back again. “Yes, and we’d like the photography package as well.”

The coordinator beams. “Excellent choice. Our photographer will capture every moment of your special day.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Special day indeed.

We’re ushered into separate rooms to prepare. As I touch up my makeup and adjust my dress, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Who is this woman staring back at me? Just a few hours ago, I was Felicity Morris, dance teacher. Now, I’m about to become Felicity Pimaslov, mafia wife.

It feels so jarring and sudden. Everything is a blur. Time is moving so fast I can barely keep up with it, and the details are lost in the chaos.

A knock at the door startles me. “It’s time,” the coordinator says.

I follow her out. Kiril waits at the end of the aisle, looking impossibly handsome in his suit and new tie. Our gazes meet, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. I recognize his driver as one of our witnesses. The other woman appears out of place standing next to the stern-faced Russian man in her violet peplum dress, and I assume she’s a witness who works for the venue.

The ceremony passes like a dream, the detailed washed out like a pair of old bleached jeans. I repeat the vows mechanically, not feeling anything as I agree to bind my life to Kiril. I should feel something, even if it’s anger or fear, but I’m numb inside. When Kiril slides the ring onto my finger, his touch lingers, sending a jolt of electricity through me that brings me to life again.

“You may kiss the bride,” announces the officiant, and suddenly I’m aware of everything.

I take a deep breath, smelling Kiril’s spicy cologne. It’s strong scent, but with something sweet lingering underneath the initial aggression of the pine. I taste it a little in my mouth, but it isn’t bitter like alcohol. Maybe its oil based, or perhaps it’s Kiril’s natural scent mixed in that makes it taste good.

I look at him, at his piercing blue eyes, and I realize I’m only just now taking in the features of his face. He’s handsome, more so that a man in the bratva should be, but the ruggedness in his appearance paired with the thick stubble on his jaw reveal the brutality of his occupation.

My heart beats a little faster as he leans forward. I knew I would be kissing him, but now that I look at his lips, my knees feel weak and my breathing can barely keep up with my body’s desperate need for oxygen. I’m afraid I’m going to pass out.

Kiril cups my face gently. Then his lips are on mine, soft yet insistent. I melt into the kiss, forgetting for a moment that this is all for show. His kiss is firm but sensual, and he takes control. I’m still clinging to his lapels when he gently eases me away. His words are only for my ears when he says, “We have chemistry, at least.”

I nod, seeing no reason to pretend otherwise. Goosebumps are already forming on my arms and legs, and there’s a warmth in my belly that wasn’t there before I tasted his peppermint lips.

The photographer snaps away, having captured our first kiss as husband and wife and a few subsequent moments afterward. I’m breathless, and my cheeks are hot.

“Congratulations.” The coordinator shifts us subtly to another room to allow the next couple into the chapel. The hired witness remains as the driver joins us but steps out into the hall. “Let’s get some more photos, shall we?”

We pose for what feels like hours, the photographer directing us into various embraces and poses. Kiril plays the part of doting husband perfectly, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his smile never faltering. It almost feels like he actually loves me, but I know it’s an illusion that will fade the moment we leave.

My suspicions are correct. As we leave the chapel, now officially married, reality starts to sink in. I’m no longer Felicity Morris. I’m Felicity Pimaslov, wife of a Russian mafia boss and secret daughter of a Sicilian don . It all threatens to make me vomit for a moment, and I pause to suck in deep breaths of the desert air.

Kiril watches blankly until I regain control. He doesn’t attempt to comfort me or interfere. He just watches me with the same curiosity you’d give a ricket trying to jump over a blade of grass.

I suck in a few more breaths before I start to feel better. Then, he guides me back to the limo, his hand on the settling on the small again, but moving down a few inches until it’s resting on the curve of my butt.

Chills run through my body despite the heat.

As we slide into the backseat, he turns to me, his expression unreadable. “Mrs. Pimaslov, shall we consummate this marriage?”

My breath catches in my throat. This is it. The moment of truth. I nod, unable to form words.

Kiril leans in, brushing his warm lips against my ear. “Don’t worry, Felicity. I’ll be gentle... at first.”

I tremble with equal parts fear and excitement. As the limo pulls away from the chapel, I realize that my life will never be the same again. For better or worse, I’m now part of Kiril’s world, and there’s no going back.

The driver takes us to “The Bellagio.” I’ve seen the pictures of the fountain, but it’s almost magical in person. I’d love to linger to watch, but I can hear a subtle clock ticking in the back of my mind, reminding me this is just a stolen interval between my old life and my new one.

Kiril selects the best and most expensive suite. Of course, he does. He seems to have no need to budget. The elevator doors slide open directly into the room, revealing the opulent honeymoon suite. Kiril guides me inside with a gentle hand between my shoulder blades.

“Welcome to our honeymoon suite, Mrs. Pimaslov.” He stares at me hungrily for a moment but doesn’t pounce on me.

I step into the room, taking in the expansive space. A king-sized bed dominates one end, visible through the opened bedroom double doors. It seems to be draped in luxurious silk sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Las Vegas skyline, and the living area is equally lavish.

Kiril moves to the mini-bar, pouring two glasses of champagne. He hands one to me, brushing his fingers deliberately against mine. “To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass.

I clink my glass against his and the crystal rings softly. “To new beginnings,” I echo. The champagne is crisp and bubbly on my tongue, doing little to calm my nerves, but I enjoy it anyway. I can’t afford such luxuries on my own.

Kiril sets down his glass and steps closer, staring at me for a moment. “You look beautiful in that dress, but I think you’d look even better out of it.”

My breath catches in my throat. This is the moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. I set down my glass with shaking hands.

“Kiril, I...” I start, unsure of what to say.

He silences me with a finger on my lips. “It’s all right, Felicity. I know you’re nervous, but I promise I’ll take care of you. Let me show you how good it can be between us. Will you let me do that, moya krasavitsa ?”

I nod slowly, asking, “What does that mean?”

“It means my beauty.”

I flush at the compliment. Does he really think I’m so beautiful, or is he just saying that so that I don’t back out of the most important part of our union?

I open my mouth to speak, not really knowing what I’m going to say, but he cuts me off with a kiss, and I melt into him. His lips are firm but gentle, and I respond to him instinctively. This kiss becomes far more intense than the one we shared at the end of our wedding ceremony. There’s a hunger and need in it that makes my heart race.

I press closer to him, feeling the hard muscles of his body against mine. I’ve never felt anything like it before. I’ve had encounters with previous men, but nothing that made me want to have make love to any of them. Just this simple touch is already igniting every nerve-ending in my body, begging me to submit myself to his wicked games.

I’m lost in him just as I’m lost in my life, clinging only to the good feelings he’s able to give me so that I don’t have to confront the sickening dread in the pit of my stomach. I need this more than he knows.