Page 40 of Prince of Control (Bratva Heirs #1)

Lara

“This is it.” Baron’s voice clogs with emotion.

The silvery moonlight makes the water shimmer. We stand on the boardwalk of Lake Michigan, a half-block from the Kremlin. It’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve. The icy wind off the lake hits our faces, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m Russian—I’m warm in my woolen jacket. Warm from Baron's bed.

Baron clutches blood-red roses in his hand, strangling the stems with white knuckles.

We made love and were talking in bed when I asked him to show me where it happened. He froze up, like the idea made him go dead inside, so I suggested we do it right now. Tonight. We went to the corner drugstore to buy the roses, and now we’re here.

I hope the more he talks about Valentina’s death, the less of an impact it will have on him.

I wrap my arms around him from the side and squeeze.

“I honor Valentina for giving her life to protect yours,” I say. My voice wavers, even though I didn’t know the woman. I can sense how much she loved the children and how much they loved her.

“I honor Valentina for giving her life to protect ours,” Baron repeats, the words barely making it out of his throat.

“It wasn’t your fault.” I’m going to keep saying this as many times as it takes until he believes me. “None of it was your fault. You were just a kid. Only terrible people gun down an innocent woman caring for innocent children.”

I hate the haunted look in Barron’s eyes. I want to hug it away. Kiss it away. Make him forget. But this moment isn’t about forgetting. It’s about remembering. Honoring. Memorializing.

I pry the roses from his fingers and set them in the middle of the sidewalk. Tomorrow, they’ll make a sweet Christmas surprise for whoever is out here walking in the morning.

“Thank you, Valentina. We love you. We miss you.” Of course, I don’t even remember her, but I’m trying to voice what Baron may have left unsaid.

Baron makes a choking sound.

“It’s okay to cry,” I say. “Your tears are a tribute to her. And by letting them flow, you honor her and the child who suffered as a result of what happened here.”

I don’t even know where this wisdom is coming from, but I go with it. I figure the important thing isn’t the words I speak, but that we are sharing this moment. But he is not alone in his grief and torment anymore. But he knows I’m here to talk about it anytime he needs to.

Baron wraps his strong arms around me and sobs. I hold him, imagining I’m also holding that child within him who took the world onto his shoulders.

It only lasts a few moments. He lets himself release the pent up grief from that traumatic moment years ago. And then he squeezes me tighter and tighter.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs into my hair. “I love you more than the moon in the night sky. More than the sun on the coldest day. You are the sun who came into my life and warmed me up.” He gives a rough laugh. “I’m a terrible poet, but I mean every fucking word.”

I lift my face to his. “I love you more than the moon and the night sky and the sun on the coldest day. You are my warrior. My defender. My protector. My lover. My man. I’m so grateful we found each other.

And I do believe in fate now. I do believe it was meant to happen.

I do believe you were meant for me, and we were meant for each other. ”

We’re getting married in a week, but these feel like our true vows. The words we speak into each other’s hearts straight from our souls. The words that forever bind us–not into our legal marriage but our spiritual one.

Baron catches my hand and starts to run across the sand toward the water. I laugh, running with him. Every moment with him feels like a new beginning. This moment. The one we just had. And every moment going forward.

We run along the waterline, the icy air making my lungs contract. My laughter is an offering up to the gods:

Thank you for this gift of a man. Help him to heal. Bless this union, I pray.

Baron

I stand in a tux at the end of the aisle with my hands clasped in front of me.

I’m not at an altar because we aren’t getting married in a church, but a white satin strip of cloth covered in rose petals marks an aisle between the chairs set up for our guests.

Leo stands beside me as my best man. Beside him stand Alex, Felix, Phoenix, and Anders as my groomsmen.

On the bride's side stand Zoe, Anya, and Lily, Melinda, and Lara’s cousins Darya and Niko.

We decided to get married on New Year’s Eve while we were in Chicago for winter break.

Anders flew in from Norway right after Christmas.

Lara’s mom, Kat, moved into the Kremlin where my dad could keep her safe right after we saw her last. Adrian arrived two weeks ago, so Christmas was a festive affair this year.

All of our bratva family from Los Angeles came—Lara’s Aunt Nadia and her famous Uncle Flynn, of the band the Storytellers, and her two cousins who are in our wedding party.

Oleg and Flynn’s sister, Story, and their three kids came.

Pavel, Kayla, and their daughter, Mila, who says she might transfer from USC to Thornecroft next semester.

We’ve had an incredible week here—the younger generation bonding as our parents do their thing.

My parents love Lara. She told me that even though there wasn’t a marriage pact, her mom had secretly always wanted me for her.

And it seems that my mom did too. They certainly planned the wedding of the century for us.

It’s not big–it’s mostly bratva family with the exception of Gabe Tracie and a few other political guests my parents invited for their business purposes–but it’s lavish and much care went into it.

My mom paid a fortune to rent a five-star “rooftop” restaurant downtown for the night.

It’s not actually on the roof because that would be too cold, but we’re on the top floor of a downtown highrise.

It has floor-to-ceiling windows along three walls with views of Lake Michigan and Chicago.

Their usual American Nouveau cuisine is to die for, but they put together a Russian-inspired menu tonight.

Fresh pale pink and peach roses decorate the space and fairy lights twinkle everywhere.

The five-piece band my mom hired for the event strikes up “Bridal Chorus,” and a lump rises in my throat.

Five months ago, marriage wasn’t anywhere in my realm of possibilities. I wasn’t even interested in having a girlfriend. I was totally dedicated to my mission of controlling everything in Baranov House to keep people safe.

I now realize that’s not possible. Shit happens that’s out of my control. And when it does, it’s not necessarily my fault.

I’m still working on that one, but Lara reminds me of it every time she sees me go into emotional lockdown.

Christmas Eve, she asked me to show her the site where Valentina was murdered, and we left roses there.

Since then, I felt an unburdening. There was a pressure that was always in my chest that released.

My bride appears in the arched doorway, and my breath stops. Her hair is down in the back, curled into soft waves. A tiara initiates the veil that floats over her dark locks–sheer tulle that floats from her crown to her mid-back.

Her dress is incredible. Strapless and short in the front and tapering down to full length in the back.

Her breasts peak out of the top of the crystal and pearled bodice, her waist is snatched, and her legs dazzle with each step she takes.

She looks high-fashion and fairytale princess all at once.

I didn’t think it was possible, but I fall even more for her.

I swear, every day I fall deeper and deeper in love with this woman. Her softness and her strength. Her courage and her vulnerability. Her confidence and her insistence on being my partner–in all aspects of my life. There’s no hiding.

I love how I’ve learned more about myself and grown through and with her love. I love how she meets me toe to toe. I love the way I can see her micro-emotions, how she doesn’t shrink from the myriad of her feelings. How she tries to get me to own mine.

I adore how I can read her body like a delicious map. How she surrenders to me and trusts me. Respects me. How we delight in each other’s bodies, riding all the edges of pleasure and pain that I show her. I love how our life together is a great exploration where I can let down my guard sometimes.

She holds soft pink and peach roses in her hands as a bouquet.

The guests all stand to watch her float down the aisle, but her gaze locks on mine. Her love shines in her eyes–her choice is clear. A tiny smile, a knowing smile, plays on her lips. Whatever she sees on my face must confirm what she means to me. And she knows she undoes me.

My wife, my beautiful wife, is marrying me for real this time. She’s more than willing.

My bratva uncle Nikolai officiates. I asked him because he’s the kind of guy who can hold space. He has a calm, accepting quality that has always made him a favorite of mine. Since it’s not a real wedding, it doesn’t matter that he’s not a pastor or a judge.

“We are gathered today to celebrate the union of two of our own–Benjamin Baranov and Lara Turgeneva,” he says.

“Like many of you here, I remember each of their births. I remember them playing together as tots. Their mothers laughingly plotting their future marriage. And now, years later, through many twists of fate, those lightly-spoken words have become a reality.”

My throat closes.

I can’t wait. I reach for Lara, taking the bouquet from her hand and tossing it behind me as I cradle the side of her face and kiss the hell out of her.

The guests erupt into laughter and cheers.

“Oh…okay.” Nikolai plays it up, pretending to be taken aback. “Looks like we’re skipping ahead. That’s fine. That makes sense. You’re already legally married. What do you need me for, anyway?”

“Sorry.” I break the kiss and rub my lips together. “I’m good now.”

Our guests laugh again.

I feel better having touched her. All that emotion building up as she walked down the aisle was too much for my body to hold.

“Okay, great. Let’s go on.” Nikolai retrieves the bouquet from Leo, who caught it. “For future reference, the bride is supposed to throw the bouquet, not the groom.”

More laughter.

I take the flowers back and put them in Lara’s hands. Her smile is brilliant. I grin back at her, absorbing the light that shines from her face.

“How about we do a little ring exchange, huh?” Nikolai suggests. “Can you wait for that, or do you need to kiss her again?”

Well, since he asked. I cup her face for another kiss. The bouquet gets crushed between us.

“Flowers!” Lili yelps.

Lara tosses the bouquet over her shoulder, and I hear the guests laugh and cheer some more while I kiss my beautiful bride.

This time when I come away, I feel much better.

“Okay, let’s do the rings, shall we? Lili, hand that bouquet back. I’m going to rush ahead to see if we can get through this ceremony and get the party started. Or maybe these two are heading straight to their honeymoon–I’m not sure,” Nikolai jokes.

It’s turned into a comedy show, with everyone primed to laugh at every remark now.

The lightness tonight is markedly different from the serious tones of my entire existence. Of my later childhood. My college experience. My heart feels like it grew wings to fly.

“Quick, repeat after me, Ben, I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and commitment today, tomorrow, and forever. ”

More laughter.

I take the ring box from Leo and produce the ring that Lara and I picked out together. It’s an emerald-cut morganite stone, framed in little diamonds. “Lara, my partner, my wife, my best friend–I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and commitment today, tomorrow, and forever.”

Since we’re doing things backwards, she’s still wearing the simple band Lili bought for our first wedding, so I slide this engagement-style ring on in front of it.

Lara’s eyes get bright with tears, and her lips tremble.

She repeats the line, slipping the band Lili bought for me to wear back on my finger. I felt too attached to it and what it symbolized–the beginning of what has become a beautiful marriage–to want anything different.

“Benjamin and Lara, here before your friends and family in an ancient rite that creates a bond and holds meaning deeper than any law, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Our guests applaud.

“You may kiss the bride– again! ”

I kiss Lara for the third time, then pick her up and carry her down the aisle as our guests roar into cheers and the band strikes up a celebratory tune. Our groomsmen and bridesmaids dance down the aisle behind us.

Screw dinner–we’re ready for the party to begin. And for once, I’m not in charge.

Thank you for reading Prince of Control !