Kathleen had accepted long ago that yesterday was gone and tomorrow wasn't promised. They had this moment in time and she was going to create beautiful memories that would sustain her through the uncertainty that lay ahead.
Chapter Two
Glazov had anticipated this wedding day for a long time. The entire household had been occupied with the preparations, and now the day had finally arrived. For a man in his position, the details were simply a means to an end, the culmination of a lifetime of dedication. That was particularly true of his wife, who had done a magnificent job orchestrating today's festivities even though she had not had a wedding day of her own. Not really. Nothing like this.
There had been a wedding ceremony, yes, but theirs had been brief with no fanfare. An orthodox priest had been summoned, and Yafon and Glazov's childhood nanny, Irina, had served as witnesses. Sweet Irina's joy at seeing her former charge finally married had almost made the occasion feel … normal. Almost. Yes, Kathleen's wedding day had been nothing like today's celebration; she had worn a dress she did not pick out, agreed to vows spoken in a language she didn't understand, in front of witnesses she barely knew.
Kathleen had always assumed the ceremony was to protect them from FBI interference and, while that was true enough, Glazov knew better. It had been the only way to make her his own, to keep his Ptichka from flying away.
He felt no guilt for robbing his wife of her dream wedding. Guilt had never been an emotion he understood. Guilt was a luxury he could not allow to cloud his judgment. He felt only pride for the sacrifices Kathleen had made and the example she continued to set as a Bratva wife. She was a strong woman given to deep convictions and even deeper passion, and he was the beneficiary of both. For that, he was grateful.
The day she walked into his gambling house, he knew he had to have her. His desire for her had been, and continued to be, all-consuming. The only way he would have felt any regret where she was concerned was if he had not stepped up and taken what he wanted-her. There had been no courting, no sweet persuasion, although he had taken great pleasure in using his sexual prowess to make sure she was as addicted to him as he was to her.
Over the years, his obsession had only grown and that lustful hunger still gnawed at him whenever she walked into the room. He was more in love with his wife now than he had ever been. His cock stirred restlessly as he considered stealing her away from the celebration for a while. He needed to bury himself inside her again and would like nothing better than to return her to their guests with her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen, aching from his possession with every dignified step she took as she played hostess.
But that would have to wait. He felt the need to confer with Yafon once more about security arrangements for Vladimira's departure -- and he might also ask Yafon few probing questions about the moment he had just witnessed between the two of them.
He shook his head abruptly and frowned, pushing down the relentless premonition of danger that had been his constant companion for the last few days. Some of his men were given over to superstition when it came to him; they were well-versed in his ability to sense trouble before it came.
He locked eyes with his cousin, Novak, across the room. Novak took in Glazov's narrowed gaze and immediately turned to his wife to excuse himself. And that's when it happened … shots rang out.
The staccato crack of gunfire was almost drowned out by the sound of shattering glass and the cacophony of terrified shrieks pouring forth from the non-Bratva guests. Glazov instinctively dove for his wife, sending them both to the floor as he covered her body with his own. Bodyguards surrounded them, forming a tight circle, shoulder-to-shoulder, their guns drawn. This was the moment they'd been trained for. They would gladly give their lives to ensure their Pakhan didn't lose his.
Now he understood the oppressive sense of doom that had been wrapping itself around him like a shroud in recent days. He understood it and he embraced it, just as he embraced the death and gore that would surely follow in its wake. After all, could a man with as much blood on his hands as Alexander Glazov ever truly start over and begin again?
Even as pandemonium reigned around him, Glazov's survival instincts kicked in and a deadly calm settled over him. The gunfire had stopped and the tight circle of guards stepped back as a familiar voice rang out above all others, calling for calm and barking out orders for guards to search the property. As he raised up on an elbow, Glazov was not at all surprised to see Novak standing tall among the huddled wedding guests, a gun clenched in each hand and a whole lot of crazy burning in his eyes as he relentlessly created order from chaos. It was what he was good at, after all.