He wanted my kid in office.
Or, at least, one of his sons’ kids in office.
That was the end game, and fuck, I wanted nothing to do with it and didn’t have a goddamn say in it either way.
My mouth tightened as the organ started playing theBridal Chorus, and the slap of my brother Declan’s hand to my shoulder had me glaring at him in irritation—did the fucker think I didn’t know what that meant?
We’d already dealt with Pachelbel as two kids, a boy and a girl, had traipsed down the aisle, and a herd of fucking bridesmaids had soon followed.
Even in midsummer, St. Patrick’s was goddamn cold, so theBridal Choruscame as a relief—my dick was about to fall off from the chill within the old stone walls.
“You look at her like that, she’ll have a heart attack,” Dec muttered, as he twisted around to stare at my bride.
Disinterested in the proceedings, I shrugged. “Will save me the trouble of having her as a ball and chain.”
His lips twitched. “She looks hot.”
“She’s eighteen. I don’t go in for kids.”
“She’s legal,” Declan replied, “and, let’s face it, you can’t not consummate it. Da won’t allow it.”
“What’s he going to do? Put fucking cameras in the bedroom to make sure I fuck her?”
A hissed, “Quiet!” had me glowering at Doyle.
Declan snorted. “Just bone her. She’s beautiful. You should have gone to her birthday party yesterday, man. That was fucking rude. She looked banging.”
My mouth tightened at the mention of the early birthday/rehearsal dinner I’d refused to attend.
Before now, I’d seen pictures of her, but every time the Bratva Pakhan, the leader of the Russian Mafia, tried to get me to meet his spawn, Inessa, I’d managed to be out of the country.
It had taken some fucking calculated risks, but I’d achieved it. Sure, there was more blood on my hands as a result, but I liked honing my skills, making sure that my abilities with a rifle were as hot shit as ever.
Plus, I had a couple of million in the bank which my father couldn’t touch, and that was always a bonus.
The prick had a habit of tithing us when we displeased him.
Beneath the organ, the throbbing notes that signified a death knell for every man’s freedom, under the low hum of the crowd’s oohing and aahing at my child fucking bride, I heard the hushed murmur of her skirts against the floor—that was only because my senses were honed.
I also heard her father’s tapping footsteps, and knew my fate was sealed.
I mean, I’d known that earlier, but still. This was it.
It was really fucking happening.
Those tapping footsteps, the shushing skirts, they signed my death certificate.
I twisted around when the scent of lilies invaded my nostrils, and though it wasn’t displeasing, I hated it instantly.
Because I wasn’t a schmuck, and I knew Inessa had to be as unhappy with this situation as I was, I didn’t glower at her, but I kept my face expressionless as I nodded at her father and accepted her hand.
I wasn’t sure how Da had managed to wear Vasov down and had gotten him into a Catholic church and out of an Orthodox chapel, but from the look on his face, he was as happy as Aidan Sr. was with the upcoming nuptials.
I knew why, of course. Women were a commodity to the Bratva. Children were property to be bought and sold, and while that was the case with the Irish Mob too, we didn’t tend to pimp out our kids to the enemy.
I cut him a look, more interested in him than my bride, and when our eyes met, his flashed slightly, a flicker of something I couldn’t read surging to life inside them.
Maybe he saw my lack of fear, something that probably surprised him, maybe he saw that I was so beyond over this I’d moved into a different stratosphere, whatever it was, he muttered something in Russian to Inessa, then scuttled away like the pond scum he was.