Designers floated in and out of the estate with arms full of ivory gowns and lace veils. Jewelers came next—offering diamonds the size of bullets. Florists, planners, security teams... it was chaos dipped in elegance.
Invites were sent.
Guards were doubled.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
"The only daughter of Lucien Vasiliev is getting married?"
"To a Russian?"
"They've been dating for years, haven't you heard? It's a love match!"
The media had a field day. Paparazzi swarmed outside gates. Whispers danced through elite circles. But only a select few knew the truth.
This wasn't a love story.
This was a deal sealed in blood and silk.
The halls were overflowing with prominent men and women—politicians, mafia dons, ambassadors, billionaires. Men with blood on their hands clinked champagne glasses with women wearing pearls worth the price of a life.
Security was suffocating. Armed guards stood at every entry point, earpieces in, eyes sharp.
At the heart of it all, she stood still—flawless in white, her face unreadable.
Her name?
Serena Vasiliev.
The only daughter. The dagger in a dress. And today... the bride.
This would be the first time she'd see the man she was being married off to.
She took a slow, steady breath as the tall figure entered the hall beside the officiator.
And to her surprise… her lips twitched.
"Well… at least he's not old or ugly."
He stood proud, dark-haired, eyes like frost, and a jawline sharp enough to draw blood.
"At least I can show him in public," she muttered under her breath.
Her brother, standing beside her, smirked.
"Don't get too excited," he whispered.
"Pretty doesn't mean safe."
The wedding was finally over.
If you could even call it that.
To everyone else, it was a grand affair—elegant, opulent, unforgettable.
To me? It was just a treaty. A stage. A performance dressed up in white.
I would've preferred a contract—signed, sealed, unemotional.
But no.
The Italians and my father—if I should even call him that—decided a real wedding was the best way to sell the lie.
For crying out loud... they had people.
They had vows.
They had flowers.
Jesus.
I stood beside a man I didn't know, with champagne in my hand and cameras flashing like it was a fairytale. But this wasn't love—it was war disguised in lace.
They cheered as we kissed.
They clapped as we smiled.
They didn't know the silence between us was louder than the music.
"Smile, Serena," my brother whispered before I walked down the aisle. "Let them think they won."
Well, I smiled.
And I let them win... for now.
The one part no one ever talks about after the rings and the toasts and the fake smiles.
Leaving.
Leaving home.
Leaving Russia.
Leaving my brothers.
Leaving everything I've ever known—including the pieces of myself I buried between blood and power.
I swear I'm not crying.
Really.
The makeup just got into my eyes.
That's all.
But of course… that was the moment he chose to stare at me.
He didn't say anything. Just watched me quietly from a distance, like he was trying to figure out if he'd just married a weapon… or a woman who might shatter at the first crack in her armor.
I hugged both of my brothers tightly.
The elder pressed a kiss to my forehead, whispered, "Watch your back, always."
The younger smirked, barely holding back his emotions. "If he touches a strand of your hair wrong, blink twice. I'll bring hell."
I turned to our men—my men. The soldiers who had followed me into fire and back.
"Stay sharp. Stay loyal. Stay alive."
They nodded, not a single word exchanged. We didn't need them. We were built on silence and trust.
And then… I left.
I didn't spare my father a single glance.
Let him rot in the silence he forced on me my entire life.
I stepped into the black car waiting at the curb. My new husband sat beside me, still watching, still unreadable.
As the door shut behind me, I took one last breath of Russian air.
This car... will either take me to freedom.
Or bind me to something far worse than the mafia.
Marriage.