72. Chapter 72

72

Leonid

" B layt . Stop fucking fidgeting,” Ludis growls. “You’re making me dizzy.”

“ Idi nahui ,” I mutter, but my fingers still their restless tapping against my thigh. The golden Alexander McQueen cufflinks catch the late afternoon light, reminding me of the way Clara’s eyes gleam when she’s plotting my murder.

“The mighty Pakhan ,” Maksim snickers from my other side, his midnight blue Tom Ford perfectly tailored to his broad frame. “Terrified of a tiny American woman.”

“I will shoot you both. Right here.” The threat would carry more weight if my voice didn’t crack slightly. A blast of Alpine wind cuts through the heated terrace, making the thousands of fairy lights above us dance. Through the glass panels, the Matterhorn looms like a silent guardian, its snow-capped peak painted gold by the setting sun.

“Seriously, boss, you look like you’re about to puke,” Maksim mutters from my left, his breath fogging in the cold.

“I’ll hold the bucket,” Ludis adds from my right, smirking. The gold band he’s holding glints mockingly under the fairy lights as he flips it between his fingers— my wedding band for the ring exchange later. He’s wearing a deep forest-green coat trimmed with a fur collar that makes him look like a Bond villain. Of course, he pulls it off. The bastard always does.

My focus shifts back, pulled unbidden to the far end of the aisle. The spot where Clara is supposed to walk out.

Instead, there’s a flash of motion, small and lively. Elijah.

He’s wearing a mini version of my suit—black, tailored, with a deep red boutonnière pinned to his lapel. His shoes gleam like he’s polished them himself. He’s clutching a basket, tiny fists gripping the handles like it’s the most important job in the world.

My heart swells. It’s not the nerves this time. It’s…him. My son. The most handsome flower boy I’ve ever seen.

Next to him, Marina stands tall. At twelve, my niece’s long legs and striking presence make her impossible to ignore. She’s wrapped in a winter-white dress, fur-lined at the collar and sleeves, paired with boots meant for stomping through snowdrifts. Elijah says something to her, and whatever it is makes her laugh so hard she has to grab his shoulder for balance.

“She’s taller than half your men,” I mutter to Ludis.

“Her mother—” he stops. That smirk vanishes in a blink like a switch has been flipped. His eyes dart, unfocused for a moment, his jaw clenched tight as if he’s holding back a thousand memories. Then, in a heartbeat, he coughs—a single bark, raw and rough—and his face slides back into the mask of the boss. Whatever window opened, he slams it shut so fast it’s almost like it never cracked .

I glance at him, arching a brow. “Never thought I’d hear you admit she didn’t get it all from you.”

“She’s got my brains,” he says, straight-faced.

I laugh, shaking my head. Who would’ve guessed? Ludis Kuznetsov, the cold, calculated son of a bitch I’ve spent years fighting, turns out to be a sentimental bastard. Brains and beauty—he’s practically bragging about his daughter like a proud dad at a school recital.

The heater hums louder as the chill creeps in, but no one complains. The wedding is small, intimate—a world away from the grand affairs we’re used to. That’s the point. Fewer eyes, fewer risks. Just the people who matter.

Victor Montclair sits near the front, his wife Juliette tucked against his side like she belongs there. One of his hands rests on her back, his fingers brushing the fur collar of her coat. The other holds his daughter’s hand—a casual grip, like it’s second nature. Alix leans toward him, her head tipped slightly as she whispers something to her brother. Mathis huffs in response, clutching the notebook in his lap a little tighter, but Victor’s calm doesn’t waver. He adjusts Mathis’s scarf with steady hands, murmuring something low that makes the boy nod, his shoulders easing.

It’s not a display. Victor isn’t performing for anyone. It’s just him, effortlessly keeping his family anchored, as though no empire or enemy could ever pull them apart.

I swallow hard, my throat tightening against the sharp air. The wind cuts through the terrace heaters, biting, but it’s not the cold that gets to me. It’s the way Victor moves—how he leans toward Juliette when she murmurs something, the faint smile tugging at his lips, the way his hand lingers on her shoulder for a moment too long. His son looks up at him like he’s unshakable. His daughter, tall and confident, holds his hand like she’s never doubted it’ll be there.

It hits me in a way I didn’t expect. I, Leonid Kuznetsov, am going to be a husband. A husband. And—God help me—it’s something I never thought I’d want. Not until now. Not until Clara.

The thought sneaks in, uninvited but impossible to ignore. Could I have this? Could I be this? A husband. A father. The kind who isn’t just feared but trusted. Needed.

For the first time in my life, the idea of losing something scares me more than anything I’ve ever taken.

I drag my gaze from Victor and his perfect, unshakeable family and scan the terrace, hoping the distraction will steady the unrelenting pounding in my chest. It doesn’t.

Maxwell Caldwell sits off to the side in a wheelchair, his once hard and bitter gaze now softened by something heavier—regret. His hands rest lightly on the blanket covering his lap, no longer clutching his ever-present flask. Instead, they tremble slightly, unsteady but unburdened, as if the truth he’s learned has stripped away years of anger he can no longer afford to carry.

Mitch stands behind him, steadying the wheelchair with a calm patience that feels out of place in the towering man’s imposing frame. For all his bulk and scars, Mitch moves carefully, almost gently, as though he understands the weight Maxwell is trying to bear. When Maxwell glances toward the aisle, there’s no resentment in his expression—only a quiet ache and a flicker of determination.

Behind him, Mitch pushes the wheelchair with surprising gentleness for someone of his size. Ludis’s hulking underboss, towering even over Dmitry, doesn’t need to loom to command attention. Yet there’s an ease in the way Mitch handles Maxwell now, as if he understands that this fragile man has already fought his toughest battles—against himself.

And then there’s Mysh— Mouse . The irony of that nickname still gets me. A walking mountain of a man, with shoulders that could double as a fortress wall, pacing near the musicians as if one of the violinists might be carrying a bomb. His fur-lined coat flares with every heavy step, making him look like a pissed-off grizzly rather than the rodent his name suggests. Even the choir sneaks wary glances at him, though Mysh seems oblivious, too focused on keeping an eye on Ludis and me.

Dmitry stands farther back, by the choir, dressed in a sharp black coat but somehow managing to look like he’d rather be anywhere else. I catch his eyes as he scans the terrace. He gives a small nod, the silent all clear that eases some of the tension coiled in my spine.

Kayla flits around the edge of the crowd, adjusting details that don’t need adjusting—fluffing ribbons, repositioning candles, and whispering orders to Galina and Ivan, who shuffle nervously, trying to keep up.

The choir hums softly as they tune up, their voices blending with the faint plucking of strings from the musicians. The soft sounds swirl through the terrace, mingling with the crackling of the fire pits and the occasional gust of icy wind. The fairy lights strung above us sway with each breeze, throwing golden flecks across the glass panels framing the Matterhorn.

I flex my fingers, restless, and glance down at the band Ludis is still flipping between his fingers like a damn coin.

“Are you done with that?”

He grins, tossing the ring into the air and catching it without breaking stride. “Not yet.”

The urge to punch him in the face grows stronger by the second, but I resist. Barely. Instead, I glance toward the aisle, the place where Clara will walk out. The thought makes my pulse spike, and I shift in my seat, trying to focus on anything but that.

It doesn’t work.

The live choir begins singing, their voices rising in perfect harmony with the strings. The melody cuts through the icy air, rich and vibrant, making the crowd fall silent. The faint murmurs fade, replaced by the music and the distant crunch of snow under someone’s boots.

I flick my gaze upward—and there she is.

Clara.

My heart stops.

She stands at the far end of the aisle, wrapped in white and shimmering faintly in the light. Her shoulders are bare beneath a soft fur stole, her dark hair pinned up to reveal her neck. The dress is simple, elegant, clinging to her like it was made for her alone. The gold embroidery at the hem glints faintly as she takes her first step forward.

Her eyes find mine, and suddenly, the cold is gone. The wind, the choir, the crowd—everything fades until there’s only her.

God help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.

My wife. Mrs. Kuznetsov.