Chapter 3 - Boris

With her limp in my arms, I walk out to my waiting SUV. She can't weigh more than 150 pounds, so it's not a difficult feat, but I can't help but think that if she were fighting back against me, I would be struggling a lot more.

I sit her up in the passenger seat and buckle her in, then I tie a loose gag in her mouth and bind her wrists, being careful not to leave a mark on her skin.

Already, there is so much about this woman that I wasn't expecting. The fighting back. The fucking pepper spray. In my face. It burns as I drive, but I find myself looking over at her. She's not what I expected from a mafia princess. On the roof, when I had her in my arms, and she was looking into my eyes, there was something there. Something deeper. Like I had already known her a long time.

When I pull into the chapel, she's already starting to stir, her eyes taking in the scene, settling on me. She looks confused about the venue but stays completely quiet as I round the car and open the door in front of her.

"If you run," I warn, "I will catch you."

She murmurs something through the gag, and I reach up, pulling it down to hear what she says. With the gag free, she shakes her head to get the loose hairs away from her face, the streetlights reflecting off the apples of her cheeks, sparkling in her eyes.

It hits me in a way it shouldn't. She's beautiful.

"What?" I ask, indicating that she should repeat what she said when she was gagged.

"I said—is that a promise?"

I roll my eyes and pull the gag back up into her mouth, watching as she raises her eyebrows at me. Who the hell is this Olive Allard?

We walk into the chapel, where Roman and Viktor are waiting. So, Anya didn't want anything to do with this. I stifle the urge to call her and demand she show for my wedding—there's no time, anyway.

"Did you set things up the way I wanted?" I ask, passing Olive to Viktor, who quickly starts to pull a white dress over her t-shirt and shorts. It almost sounds like she's…laughing. Through the gag.

I try to ignore her and the strange looks I'm getting from my other brothers and turn my attention to the phone set on the tripod in the center of the aisle. It's live streaming through a secure network, a video that will be delivered straight to James Allard and deleted from the device afterward. I'm giving him all the pain but none of the proof.

"Brother," Roman says, leaning in, his eyes roaming over my face. "Did you—were you hit with pepper spray?"

"Let's just say my little bride here is a lot more feisty than she first let on."

Roman laughs and puts a hand to his mouth before moving across the room. He sits in the front pew with my other brothers, who all give me similar looks.

I know what I'm doing is slightly unhinged, but I need to get back at Allard. Besides, many other people in our family have found their partners through similar means. I wouldn't be the first man to kidnap a woman and force her into marriage.

For those in the family, if you want someone who isn't already part of the Bratva life, you likely have to force them into it at first.

As I take my place in the front of the church, I straighten my suit jacket and grin at the camera, imagining his confused face as his daughter appears in the frame. It looks like Roman and Viktor have attempted to smooth her hair down. One of them has a bruise blossoming on their right cheek, and I gaze at this woman, feeling something strange stirring in my chest at the sight of her.

Even with her lumpy dress and the maniacal look in her eye, she's gorgeous. The kind of beauty that can't be hidden under plain clothes but instead looks strange. Like a beautiful, hand-crafted cake on sale at a diner. Or a classic car in the junkyard.

It's no wonder she has such a large social media following and that so many people are in love with her.

There's something especially pleasing about having taken not only Allard's daughter—but such a shining jewel of one, at that. There are some people within the mafia space who might actually thank you for taking their troublesome, ugly daughters away from them. But Allard will definitely be missing this one.

The officiant that Bratva keeps on retainer is here. A legal notary already prepared the documents, he's used to this kind of quick process. He stands before the podium, preparing to conduct the ceremony.

"Good afternoon, Milov family. We are here to celebrate the union of Boris Milov and…" he glances down at his papers. "Olive Allard. This union is one of power, of righteousness. Boris, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," I say, my chest filling with pride at the idea. The woman across from me is staring me down, her eyes dark and dangerous, and it's stirring something in me that I've never felt before.

"And you, Olive Allard, do you take this man, Boris Milov, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Olive tries to say something through her gag, something muffled. The plan was never to let her actually speak during this part, but to my shock, it almost sounds like she says something near to I do.

My hackles raise as I look at her. Why in the world would she be going along with this? Marrying her father's closest enemy? It doesn't make any sense. She must know something that I don't. I stare at her in the face, trying to figure it out.

There's no way Allard could be this far ahead of me, right? There's no way he could know that I planned to kidnap his daughter. And if he did, what kind of father would allow that to happen?

I think of her Instagram post, which clearly pointed to where she would be. Did Olive want to be taken? Is she some sort of double operative infiltrating the Milovs? Am I just assisting her in getting into our organization?

And, if all of this could be true, why is there something in my brain telling me that it doesn't matter? All I can focus on is the soft curve of her jaw, the sparkle in her eye, and how she stands tall and straight, even in these most ridiculous circumstances.

"You may kiss the bride," the officiant says, looking from me to her. Carefully, I reach around the back of her head and undo the tie, loosening the gag so I can lower it down around her neck. She tilts her head up and raises an eyebrow at me.

A challenge.

I step forward, bringing my hands to either side of her face, just barely grazing the skin there. At the touch, I feel a shiver run through her body, and it sends one ricocheting through my body as well.

The way she's looking at me—it's like she wants to eat me alive.

For the first time in my life, I might just be meeting a woman half as dangerous and deranged as I am. My entire body reacts to this face with vehemence, making me lean forward, stoop down, and capture her lips with mine.

I only mean to brush my lips against hers, and then she rocks forward, pressing our lips together firmly and slipping her tongue into my mouth. It's shocking and sudden, and she tastes so good—like cotton candy.

My body reacts, one hand going around to the back of her head, the other cradling her jaw more intently, tipping her head up for better access. We kiss like that, ravenous for one another, for longer than would be appropriate at a wedding, until I finally pull away, chest heaving, incredulous at this woman.

She brings her bound wrists to her face, using the back of a tied hand to swipe across her mouth, smiling at me as she does. The movement is so arousing that I have to look away for just a moment to gather my bearings.

When I glance away from her, I remember the live stream I have set.

"The papers, sir," the officiant says, sliding them forward on the table. I lean down and scrawl my name hastily, then place the pen into Olive's hand so she can sign her name along the line. When it's finished, the officiant grabs them, stuffing them into an envelope. "I'll take these to city hall on Monday morning," he says, tipping his head at me and making a quick exit through the back of the chapel.

My bride smiles. I clear my throat, turning back to the phone, ignoring the shocked looks on my brothers' faces. Wanting to take back some control of the situation, I take her by the back of her dress and haul her over so she's standing next to me.

"Say hi to your daddy," I say, laughing through the words and doing a little wave to the camera.

"Why?" she asks, glancing over at me. "Is this broadcasting to the afterlife?"

My head jerks around to her.

"Don't fuck with me, Olive," I growl, "just say hi to daddy Allard."

"This is so rich," she laughs, then, turning to the camera, she says, "Hi, Mr. Allard. I hope you have really good incidentals insurance."

"Turn it off," I snap to Anton, who jumps up from his seat and fumbles with the phone to turn it off. Then, looking back at Olive, I say, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"When he hired me," she says, "he didn't say anything about the risk of kidnapping."

"When he hired you?"

"Yes, I'm an intern at Mr. Allard's company."

"Why are you calling him that?"

"Well, it would be kind of inappropriate to call my boss by his first name, don't you think?"

"Your dad ."

"Yeah, I wish," she laughs, rolling her eyes. "No, my dad OD'ed on narcotics six years ago. That happens when you have a traumatic brain injury from a service in Panama."

"Your father…"

"You really didn't look at a picture of Olive before trying to kidnap her? And, by the way, you would have had a much easier time if you'd just waited outside Alors downtown. That's the club she always goes to with her friends. Olive never stays late; she just bribes me to do it. She's addicted to her vape—wouldn't go more than five minutes without ducking outside to use it. Which you could have discovered with just like—a day of surveillance?"

Why is it turning me on that she's talking to me like this? I stare at her, my mind racing. If this isn't Olive Allard, then who the hell did I marry?

"Fiona Chase," she says, holding out her bound hands to mine. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Milov."

What kind of woman acts like this when she's just been kidnapped? When she's just been forced to marry someone? Who the hell is Fiona Chase, and what have I gotten myself into with her?

"Aren't you the slightest bit concerned that you've just married a man you don't know?" I murmur, leaning down closer to her. She smells like soap and vanilla. "Doesn't that bother you, Fiona Chase?"

"Oh," she says, taking a step closer to me, her eyes like lasers drilling into my skull. "If one of us should be concerned about this arrangement, Mr. Milov, it's not me. And besides, we're not married. I signed Olive's name on that paper, so if you're married to anyone, it's her. But that's never going to go through the court system—not with Mr. Allard's lawyers. But good luck."

"Fuck!" I roar, turning and slamming my palm into the altar. "Fucking fuck."

Shame and anger wash into me in equal measure. How could this be happening? First, the arms deal with Nevio, and now the plan to get back at Allard for his meddling. I've been in charge of this branch of the Bratva for only a few months, and already I've managed to make a mess of things.

Roman, and Viktor are staring back at me, their eyes wide. Roman has his phone in his hand.

"That's not Olive Allard," he confirms. "That's Fiona Elizabeth Chase."

I ball my hand into a fist. My brothers can see how much this fuck up and this entire series of events are bothering me. I take this woman—Fiona, not Olive—by the arm and drag her with me down the steps and toward the door.

"Brother," Roman says, following after. "Where are you going?"

"I'm taking Fiona back to my place until I can figure out what to do about this entire fucked situation," I growl, barely able to see straight with the rage that's consuming me. Thinking of my mother's voice and what she would say to do, I try to take a deep breath, but the action just further irritates me. My lungs and throat are still burning from the pepper spray, and the woman I'm dragging along is laughing quietly under her breath.

My brothers stand outside the chapel, watching as I stuff Fiona Chase into my car and circle around to the driver's seat.

"Figure out what happened at the arms deal," I spit at them, making them jump, before I climb into the driver's seat and throw the SUV into gear.

"Oh, boy," Fiona says from the passenger seat as she leans back and puts her feet up on the dash. "I can't wait to see where we're going for our honeymoon."