Mafia King’s Bride

1. Ana

ONE

ANA

“Dochka.”

The familiar word slices through the heavy air, pulling me from my thoughts. I turn, seeing my father standing in the doorway. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, holding a small bouquet that feels like a cruel joke. His eyes are haunted as they meet mine. He’s trying to smile, trying to be strong. For me.

I walk toward him without a word, stepping into his arms as they open, and the second his warmth wraps around me, something inside me breaks. A tear slips free, hot and fast, but I wipe it away quickly, as if it never existed. He can’t know. He’s carrying enough guilt without my pain adding to it.

“How are you holding up?” His voice is rougher than usual as he hands me the bouquet—small, delicate, like me. Like the old me. “Do you want me to stay? I can wait with you until it’s time.”

I force a smile so tight it hurts. “I’m fine, Papa. It’s my wedding day, right? I’m happy.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. He sees through it, his jaw tightening as he reaches out and cups my cheek, his touch too soft for this moment, for the nightmare this day has become. “You don’t have to do this. I can find another way. We can delay?—”

“No,” I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended. The bouquet slips from my hand, landing on the floor with a dull thud. “We both know there’s no other way.”

His face crumples, the weight of the world pressing down on him. He’s been my rock, my protector, my everything since the day my mother died. He was the one who held me through every scraped knee, every disappointment, every victory. And now I have to save him.

Tears fill his eyes, and for the first time in my life, I see him break. My father—the man who never flinched when his men were gunned down, the man who stood tall even as his empire burned—is crying. I swallow down the scream clawing its way up my throat.

“Papa,” I whisper, grabbing a handkerchief from the dresser and dabbing at his eyes. The sight of his tears shreds me to pieces, but I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not yet.

“You were always dreaming about your wedding when you were little,” he says, his voice cracking with nostalgia. “Your dolls, the dress, the big church. It was all you ever talked about.”

I smile bitterly, the ache in my chest spreading. “That was before I knew what the world is like.”

He shakes his head, pulling me closer. “The world may be ugly, dochka , but your dreams are still yours. I was supposed to protect you from all of this. Not,” his voice breaks, and it feels like my heart is being ripped from my chest, “make you pay for my mistakes.”

I can’t hold it back anymore. The tears spill over, hot and unchecked, running down my face in streaks. “I’ll be fine,” I manage to say, even though it’s a lie. A lie I’ve been telling myself since the day this nightmare began. I’ve learned from him how to put on a mask, how to make the world believe you’re unbreakable when you’re already shattered.

His hand drops to his side, but the look in his eyes is killing me.

“I know you will,” he whispers, his voice filled with both pride and sorrow. “You’re my daughter.”

We stand in silence, the weight of what’s coming pressing down on us both. This room feels like a tomb—cold, suffocating, the exact opposite of what a wedding should be. I always imagined a day filled with light, love, and laughter. I dreamed of a beautiful dress, walking down the aisle toward a man who looked at me as if I was his entire world.

Instead, I’m walking toward a man I despise.

No expenses have been spared, but there’s no amount of luxury that can mask the truth. In a few short minutes, I’ll be promising myself to a stranger—a man I’m marrying not for love, but for survival. Twelve-year-old me would have run screaming from this moment. She would have refused.

But I don’t have that luxury. If I don’t marry him, my father will lose everything. His empire, his men, maybe even his life.

What a sick, twisted fairytale.

My father steps back, clearing his throat. “I should check on things,” he says, though his voice wavers with uncertainty.

I shake my head, cutting him off before he can offer to stay again. “I’ll be fine. I’m Nikolas Petrov’s daughter, after all.” The words are meant to comfort him, but the pride in my voice feels hollow. Still, it makes him smile, a flicker of hope in his tired eyes.

He pulls me into one last hug, and I cling to him, holding on tighter than I ever have . “I’ll see you at the chapel, dochka ,” he whispers.

I kiss his cheek, fighting the urge to beg him not to leave. Helplessly, I watch as the door closes behind him. The moment he’s gone, my legs give out, and I collapse into the chair, burying my face in my hands.

My tears continue to fall freely, and I pray for a miracle. For the ground to swallow me whole and spit me out somewhere far, far away from here. Somewhere I can forget this day ever happened.

But I’m not a child anymore. I don’t get to run and hide. This is my duty, my fate, and I’ll walk down that aisle and marry the man I loathe to save the one person I love most in this world.

There’s no other choice.

An hour later, I sit in front of the mirror, my hair twisted into a blooming low bun, my face smoothed and sculpted by layers of makeup. The woman staring back at me is a stranger—her lips too perfect, her eyes too bright, her expression too composed. It’s as if I’m looking at a mask, rather than a person.

The makeup artist gently dabs beneath my eye with a small brush, her movements practiced and gentle. My eyelids flutter closed, grateful for the brief reprieve from staring at the stranger I’ve become.

“Do you have allergies?” she asks, her voice laced with concern.

“No. Why?” I reply, even though I already know the answer.

“You’re teary,” she explains, frowning a little as she inspects her work.

I raise a hand instinctively to touch my face but catch myself just in time, letting my arm drop back to my lap. “I’m sorry.”

She gives me a reassuring smile in the mirror. “It’s okay. Brides cry all the time. It’s an emotional day.” She pauses, applying more powder under my eyes. “Don’t worry, the mascara is waterproof. It won’t run when you see your husband.”

I don’t correct her or tell her I’m not a typical emotional bride. It’s the dread pressing down on me like a stone, threatening to crack me open.

I just want this wedding to be over.

She brushes the last bit of powder away. “He’s quite the catch, you know. Your fiancé.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He was on the cover of Most Wanted Bachelors last month. And now he’s getting married to you.”

Her eyes gleam with something—envy, maybe admiration. Either way, it twists in my gut like a knife. If only I could hand him over to her, let her take my place.

“Thank you,” I murmur, unsure of what else to say.

She hesitates, biting her lip before asking, “Was it love at first sight?”

Love. The word tastes like ash in my mouth.

I almost laugh—an empty, bitter sound—but I hold it in. How could anyone think love had anything to do with this? Why would I love a man who is marrying me only to punish my father?

Dmitri Orlov. Heir to the Orlov empire. To the outside world, he’s a businessman, the golden boy gracing magazine covers, his every move followed by cameras and admirers. But to those of us who know him—truly know him—he’s the pakhan . A man feared for his ruthlessness, a man who crushes his enemies without blinking.

The makeup artist doesn’t understand. She could never.

I let the silence stretch, and she takes my pause for confirmation, a dreamy smile spreading across her face. “I knew it,” she says, nodding as if she’s solved some great mystery. “With men like that, it’s impossible not to fall in love with them. The way they look at you, it gives you butterflies.”

If only she knew. There are no butterflies, only terror.

I sigh, glancing back at the mirror. She’s still waiting for an answer, her expression expectant. “Yes,” I lie, forcing a smile. “It was… love at first sight. We met at an event, and when I saw him across the room, I just knew.”

Her smile widens, and she nods, satisfied. I feel the weight of my lie settle like a stone in my chest.

The organ’s deep, resonant chords fill the air as the chapel doors swing open. I take a deep breath, the veil pressing lightly against my face, my wedding gown heavy around me like chains. My father’s arm slips through mine, his grip steadying me.

“ Dochka ,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m proud of you.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, my lips trembling as I force a smile. “Thank you, Papa.”

We walk down the aisle together, each step a deliberate effort to keep my body from betraying the panic bubbling just beneath the surface. Faces blur in my peripheral vision—familiar faces, dangerous faces. Friends and enemies alike are watching, waiting.

I keep my gaze forward, locked on the man standing at the altar.

Dmitri Orlov.

He towers over the priest, his expression unreadable, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the perfectly tailored suit. His features are sharp, striking—handsome, yes, but in a way that feels dangerous, predatory. The kind of beauty that warns you not to get too close.

My heart stutters as our eyes meet through the thin veil. There’s a cold intensity in his gaze, like he’s stripping me bare, seeing parts of me I’ve never shown to anyone. I look away, focusing on the priest’s voice, though the words slip past me like fog.

The vows come and go, my voice sounding distant and hollow as I recite the lines I’ve memorized. Dmitri’s response is short and clipped. He barely looks at me, yet I can feel the weight of his presence, the power he exudes.

“And now,” the priest announces, “you may kiss the bride.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with finality. I stand frozen, my body stiff, waiting for him to move. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, Dmitri reaches out, lifting my veil.

I hold my breath as his fingers graze my skin, his touch unexpectedly gentle. He steps closer, and I can feel the warmth of his body, the clean, masculine scent filling the space between us.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over my lips, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if he’s going to stop. If he’ll pull away and leave this moment unfinished.

But he doesn’t.

His lips brush against mine—a soft, barely-there touch, yet it ignites something strange and unwelcome inside me. It’s a simple kiss, brief and restrained, but my heart is pounding in my chest, my pulse thrumming loudly in my ears. A flicker of heat surges through me, confusing and unwanted.

He pulls away before I can process the feeling, and the room erupts in applause. My hands are trembling as I clasp them together, trying to hold on to something, anything, that makes sense. I glance at my father, watching him wipe a tear from his cheek, but all I can think about is the ghost of Dmitri’s lips on mine.

As we step outside the chapel, Dmitri’s hand slips from mine.

“I’ll see you at the reception,” he says, his voice detached. “There are things I need to attend to.”

Without waiting for my response, he turns and walks away, his broad back disappearing into the crowd.

I stand there, watching him go, swallowing down the knot of anger and hurt that rises in my throat. The applause still rings in my ears, but all I feel is emptiness. The tears burn behind my eyes, but I force them back, smiling for the crowd as they spill out of the church.

Married.

To a man who couldn’t even stay by my side after the ceremony.