Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Damien cleared his throat. "You know we're going to have to make a decision about her. Loose ends and all that."
"She's my problem," I said too quickly.
"She can directly implicate our family in a murder. She's all of our problem," Mikhail said, with a knowing look in his eyes. "One way or another, she will have to be dealt with."
"It's about the only thing Artem and Gregor agree on. Something will need to be done about her," Damien added.
The reminder sent cold dread through my veins.
The Ivanovs didn't kill women…unless it was absolutely necessary.
Mikhail crossed his arms over his chest. "You could just marry her."
He and Damien laughed at the joke, but I said nothing.
The suggestion wasn't as absurd as they thought.
Marry Alina?
Marry Alina.
I turned the idea over in my head. The words should have sounded foreign, strange—bitter even. Never once in my whole damn life had I ever considered taking a wife…or having children. My world was violent and unpredictable. There was no room for a woman in it.
Or so I thought.
But these last few months, seeing my brothers who used to feel the same way go from making fun of my “Americanized” cousins and their domestic bliss to sharing in it, had changed something.
The other night they invited me to stay for fondue…whatever the fuck that was.
Apparently, the wives had planned a "fun" night of food and games at Gregor's house. I'd been there for a status meeting on tracking down Alina's piece of shit father, when we broke up early because Samara had entered the room to gently remind him that dinner was ready.
The transformation was startling.
It was jarring to see the change in Gregor.
He'd gone from the ruthless man I knew who ruled over our bratva with an iron fist, to a charming, doting husband right before my eyes.
I'd seen the same change in both of my brothers. There was something about their women that softened the sharp edges of their lives.
It had me questioning my own life.
In the end…what was the fucking point of it? All of it.
The money. The violence. The crude brutality of my world.
If there wasn't someone soft and warm waiting for me at home.
Home. Not a house. A home.
A woman could make a home. Children could make a home.
And if my brothers and cousins could wash off the blood and achieve some semblance of a real life…one filled with meaning, love, and laughter…then why couldn't I?
The concept solidified in my mind.
Take Alina as my wife.
She would be mine completely—legally, socially, under God, irrevocably mine.
Mine.
My wife.
Marry her to keep her, protect her…build a life with her.
If there was one thing the men in my family had in common, it was that they married fighters. Strong women who were filled with fire and sass. A woman would need those qualities if she were to survive in my world.
Alina was a fighter.
Right now, she was tucked safely in bed. My bed.
If I married her, it would solve the issue of her being a dangerous liability.
But more than that—she would belong to me in every way that mattered.
The thought of calling her my wife sent an unexpected thrill through me.
Something twisted in my chest, an unfamiliar eagerness to return to her.
I wondered if she would still be asleep. Her eyes closed and her lips barely parted—
My reverie shattered as a different realization crashed over me.
Ice shot through my veins and a sharp, immediate panic hit me.
I forgot to cuff her back to the bed. Fuck.
CHAPTER 20
ALINA
Iwas warm, comfortable and though it defied all logical reasoning…safe.
The silk sheets were so smooth against my skin as I rolled over and buried my head into a soft pillow. The scent of warm spices and a masculine cologne filled my senses and urged me to fall back into a restful sleep.
God, these pillows smelled so good. They smelled like…him.
I jerked awake.
My bed was not warm or comfortable.
My apartment was anything but safe.
Every night was filled with shouts from my neighbors, screaming matches, and gunfire.
My sheets might as well have been made of burlap, they were so rough, and my pillow smelled faintly of cloyingly sweet strawberry dollar store conditioner, poverty, and mildew.
Where was I?
Memories of what we had done flashed through my head, and I started shaking. I was being held against my will in some high-end apartment—or maybe hotel—God only knew where.
Pavel Ivanov, one of the most feared men in the Russian mob, freaking kidnapped me.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I listened for any noise, any sound that would tell me if there was someone else in the apartment.
Nothing.
No movement, no breath, no footsteps, no music or television. Nothing.
I didn't know where he was, how long he would be gone, or when he was coming back.
I did know that this was my only chance to escape.
A sharp jolt ran through me, and I couldn't tell if it was panic or determination.