Ruthless Heir (Sokolov Bratva #1) Read Online Roma James

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Sokolov Bratva Series by Roma James
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Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
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In my world, you don’t beg for what you want. You take it.

MIKHAIL
My father built an empire, and he gave me the tools I needed to take over one day.
Power. Instinct. Ruthlessness.
Now that day has come, and my first order of business as Pakhan of the Sokolov Bratva is marrying the daughter of Egor Baranov, sworn enemy of my family.
The last thing I want is to play house with some spoiled ballerina, but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my father’s legacy.
Annika Baranov is about to learn that when I’m the one giving orders, everyone falls in line.
Because I was born to rule this city, and there was only ever one way to do it — with an iron fist.

ANNIKA
My path was always clear: escape Las Vegas, move to New York, live happily ever after as a professional ballerina.
My father had other plans.
Even for a man as cruel and calculating as Egor Baranov, handing your daughter over to a hardened criminal to suit your own business needs is low. But that’s exactly what he did.
Now, I’m at the mercy of the heartless Mikhail Sokolov, a man I know I should fear and despise, despite my heart — and my body — insisting the opposite.
But I’ve spent my life being controlled, and I won’t bend to his will. I won’t let him own me.
Even if part of me wants him to do just that.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

CHAPTER 1

MIKHAIL

The dark sky stretched deep purple over the oasis city of Las Vegas. The moon was as bright as the neon signs on the streets below, a crescent-shaped icon in the sky. The palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze along the boulevard. Music drifted from nearly every open door, one bass beat fading into the next. The air itself thrummed with a sense of possibility. Vegas was a city that insisted on itself. The desert of Nevada was hardly a hospitable location for an extravagant explosion of lights, sights, and fortunes. And yet, there it was: loud and sparkling like a mirage on the horizon. People came to the city with all kinds of fantasies tucked into their pockets, and Las Vegas was all too happy to oblige.

Nothing was off-limits. Nothing was too much.

The stars may have been blotted out by the fuzzy glow of the city lights, but there were plenty of stars on the Strip to keep it shining bright. Celebrities and beautiful people strutted the streets under halogen glow, relaxed in smoky lounges, and sat at blackjack tables. There were endless activities, never a dull moment. Excitement could be found around any corner. Any thrill you could dream of was available… at the right place, for the right price.

Down a side street just off the Strip, under the flashing digital billboards that advertised swanky hotels and casinos, one such place existed. The exterior of the building was covered in a glossy white marble, with two ionic pillars standing guard at the entrance. The doors were darkly tinted glass which obscured the world within, and only a simple, shimmery blue sign with the name The Desert Pearl was emblazoned over the entrance. It was a Saturday night, and there was a line of patrons—mostly young men—waiting eagerly to get inside as a bouncer checked IDs and kept the tipsy shenanigans at bay. Only the thickest wallets and slickest connections could get you in on a night like this, but there were plenty of extras willing to hang around and try anyway.

Once inside, the lucky patron took a short flight of stairs down into a cavernous space. The sexy rhythm of the DJ’s set bumped through the floorboards, and the client was welcomed by the scent of booze, cologne, and perfume. It was dimly lit by false-candle sconces, whose flickering flames sent undulating waves of light across the walls. There were a few ceiling panels installed across the room, too, which emitted blue and pink light. Disco balls hung here and there to further catch the whirling lights of the stage. Clients sat in velvety pink armchairs designed to resemble giant clamshells. A small fountain in the center of the club displayed rivulets of water trickling down the body of a topless stone mermaid. All of these elements came together to produce a pearlescent, under-the-sea kind of atmosphere.

Only the most beautiful, talented women made the cut at the Pearl. The twisting, rolling bodies of the dancers shimmered with sparkly lotion under the glowing lights. They wore designer lingerie, draped in crystals and gems as they writhed on the stage and slid down the gleaming pole. Between the charismatic young women and the trancelike music, the show was nearly hypnotic for its slack-jawed audience. They sat in stunned reverence, sipping the Pearl’s signature cocktail, the Classic Gibson. It was a gin and dry vermouth concoction that featured a pearl onion for garnish, invoking the name of the club.


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