Page 20 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

The cathedral stands cold and silent beneath a sky the color of steel, its stone walls ancient and impenetrable. Built by my father for blood pacts, not for blessings, it has seen more violence than grace, more secrets than prayers.

Its windows rise like watchful eyes over the winter-bare courtyard, and inside, shadows gather in every corner, softening the light from the flickering rows of candles that line the altar.

The ceremony is small. Private. Not a celebration, not really.

Just a ritual to mark a shift in power, a new arrangement for the house of Sharov.

Only the trusted are present: Miroslav, silent as always; a handful of elders, each one armed even in church; Yelena, absent and pointedly so; the old priest who has presided over every oath, every deal, every funeral in this family for as long as I can remember.

Talia stands beside me at the altar. She wears a dress of pale satin, cream rather than white—simple, elegant, clinging to the curves I know by touch now. She wears no veil. No flowers. No smile.

Her hair falls in dark waves over her shoulders, wild and unbound. She stands like a shadow, eyes forward, her hands steady but her jaw tight with what she will not say.

My hand never leaves the small of her back. I anchor her to me, a silent promise… or a warning. She is here because I have claimed her, because I have demanded it, because I will not let her slip from my grasp now that the world has seen her at my side.

My thumb circles the soft silk at her waist, grounding us both as the priest’s voice rises and falls in the old Russian cadence of our ancestors.

The air in the cathedral is thick with incense and memory. The elders sit in the front pews, hard faced, watching with a mixture of suspicion and resignation. Outside, armed men guard every door. Nothing happens here by accident.

I do not pray. I do not ask for mercy. I watch Talia as the priest intones the ancient vows, the words carved out over centuries of loyalty and betrayal. She mouths them in return, lips moving with care, her voice a whisper beneath the echoes.

I watch the shape of her mouth as she says them: for better, for worse…

She doesn’t flinch until he says forever.

It’s barely there: a tightening at her eyes, a subtle stiffening of her spine, as if the word has cut through all her composure, reminding her that this is not a game she can leave, not a lie she can untell.

My hand presses firmer against her back, and for a moment, her gaze flickers to me, searching for something. Understanding, maybe.

Or escape.

I do not let her go. I squeeze her side, a silent message: you are mine . This is not only a pact between us but a shield for both of us, a wall against the dangers circling beyond these stone walls. I do not fool myself. I know what I am doing, and what I am risking.

The priest offers the rings. They are plain, heavy, yellow gold. I slip one onto her finger, watching the way it glints against her skin. My own ring feels colder than iron as she fits it onto my hand. Our fingers tangle for a moment longer than the ritual demands.

The old man’s voice booms out: “Let no one break what is bound here today.”

He looks at each of us in turn, gaze sharp, unforgiving. The congregation does not cheer, does not clap. They simply nod, acknowledging what has been done.

When the priest finishes, Talia stands perfectly still, her eyes trained somewhere past the altar, mouth set in a line that could be pain, or pride, or simply exhaustion. I lean in, brushing my lips against her temple—soft, careful, more claim than comfort.

For a moment, I let myself wish that it meant more. That this was not only a pact of necessity and control, a bond forged from survival and strategy. I have never been a man who believes in happy endings. The ring is cold on my hand, but the woman beside me is warm.

We walk down the aisle together, my hand still at her back, guiding her past the stares of the elders, through the shadows that have seen so much blood and betrayal. The doors swing open, and the cold hits us, sharp and bracing. The world waits, full of threats and promises.

I look at her as we descend the cathedral steps, her face pale but proud, her chin high despite the tremor I can feel in her body. She glances at me then, her eyes bright with defiance and something that aches to be softer, to be free.

“Are you ready?” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear, my hand tightening just enough to remind her—remind myself—that we are bound now, by blood, by danger, by something neither of us dares to name.

She nods, once, barely more than a breath.

The car waits at the curb, black and gleaming, the guards lining the path. We step inside together. No one speaks. The future is a closed door, locked and silent.

Inside the quiet of the car, I watch her fingers twist the new ring, her gaze drifting to the window, to the world she can no longer touch.

I reach for her hand, twining our fingers, anchoring her to me, to this moment, to everything we have promised and everything we will become. She lets me.

As the car pulls away, I watch the cathedral recede in the rearview mirror, its stone walls shrinking against the gray sky. I do not pray, but I do hold on tighter.

The reception is held in a mansion on the outskirts of the city, a fortress dressed in silk and crystal, its corners shadowed by men in suits with watchful eyes and silent mouths.

Talia sits at my side, her new ring bright and unfamiliar against the stem of her champagne flute.

Waiters sweep through the room, pouring drinks that no one truly wants, filling plates that go untouched. The string quartet plays on, but the mood is tight, brittle, a forced celebration for a marriage no one quite trusts.

My captains eye Talia with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. I see it in the sideways glances, the murmured conversations as they size her up, calculating what this new alliance means, what weakness or advantage it might bring.

Some of them have known me since I was a boy. Some have spilled blood for my father and would do the same for me. None of them say a word against my choice, but I know their loyalty is not without limits.

Talia sits quietly, back straight, eyes scanning the room, not just to see, but to understand. She is not smiling, not pretending. I wonder what she is thinking, whether she is plotting escape or simply memorizing every detail, a spy in a dress of cream satin and stolen courage.

My aunt, a small woman with fierce eyes and a mouth that could curdle milk, sweeps across the floor in a rustle of velvet and perfume. She kisses both our cheeks, as tradition demands, but lingers just a heartbeat longer by my ear.

In Russian, she whispers, “Is she worth what you’re risking?” Her lips are cool against my skin. I do not answer. I cannot, not honestly.

She squeezes my arm—hard, a warning, a blessing, or both—and moves on.

The air hums with words unsaid. Toasts are made, but each is a test. My uncle raises his glass and calls Talia “brave.”

Miroslav stays close, silent and grim, his hand never far from his jacket. I pretend to drink, watching the faces that watch me in return. Even Yelena’s absence is a presence, a threat in every shadow.

Then, just as the room begins to settle, just as I start to believe we might endure this night, a sound shatters the false peace.

A low, guttural boom shakes the windows. Glass trembles in its frame. The lights flicker. For a heartbeat, no one moves. The shock is too absolute. Then, outside, shouts rise. Guards running, radios crackling, the sharp bark of orders cutting through the confusion.

Without thinking, I pull Talia from her seat, shoving her behind me. I draw my gun, the movement instinctive, practiced. All around us, guests scramble for cover, ducking under tables, diving behind the marble bar.

The security team swarms the exits, weapons drawn. The band stutters to a halt, leaving nothing but the ragged panting of fear.

I press Talia to the wall, shielding her with my body, gun raised toward the door. Her breath is hot at my neck, her hands tight around my jacket. I feel her heartbeat hammering through the silk.

“What was that?” she whispers.

“Car bomb,” I say. “Not close enough to kill. Meant to send a message.”

My mind is already moving through the list of names—family, rivals, men who might have objected to tonight’s alliance.

The timing is too precise, too calculated.

This was not an attack on our lives. It was a warning.

A shot across the bow. Someone inside the family, someone who wanted to remind me that my power is not absolute.

Miroslav appears at my side, face carved from stone. “Courtyard’s secure. Two cars destroyed. No casualties.”

I nod, never taking my eyes off the room. “Who was the target?”

He shakes his head, voice pitched low. “Both cars belonged to our own men. They were parked far from the guests.”

So it’s clear, then—no intention to kill. Just to unsettle. To remind me that every decision, every alliance, every claim I make has a cost.

The guests begin to recover, brushing glass from their sleeves, checking phones, murmuring to each other. My captains look to me for orders. My aunt stands in the center of the floor, head high, daring anyone to challenge her place at my side.

I holster my weapon, slow and careful. I look at Talia. Her eyes are wide, but she does not cry. She does not flinch. I feel a surge of pride that she can stand here, untouched by the terror that would have sent most running.

I squeeze her hand, silent and sure, then turn to the crowd. “Stay where you are,” I command, my voice carrying through the shaken room. “No one leaves until we’ve cleared the grounds. This was meant for me. For us. I will not be cowed.”

A ripple of assent moves through the guests. Old habits, old loyalties. I catch Miroslav’s eye, give a nod. He disappears, issuing orders, locking down every exit.