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)
She was supposed to be a problem—one I would deal with, forget, erase.
Instead, she became my obsession.
A hotel maid drowning in her father's debts, working among killers and Bratva bosses, believing silence would keep her safe.
Then she saw something she shouldn't.
She should have run. Should have screamed. Should have begged.
Instead, she held my gaze, defiant and unbroken.
Now, I can't let her go.
The only way to keep her alive is to make her mine—a marriage that will satisfy Bratva law and place her firmly under my control.
What I offer isn't protection…it's possession.
She fights me with every breath, her body betraying her with each trembling response to my touch.
Her eyes promise escape while her pulse races beneath my fingers.
She swears she'll never belong to me, not understanding that her resistance only fuels my determination.
Every whispered threat. Every stolen kiss. Every brutal promise draws her deeper into my world.
Because I don't just want to own her.
I want to break her. Then claim her completely.
And I always get what I want.
Enter the brutal, intoxicating world of the Ivanov Crime Family, where power is seized, love is obsession, and enemies don’t live to tell their stories. Meet the next Konstantine, Artem, Pavel, and Roman. Russian cousins raised in violence, shaped by loyalty, and willing to burn the world down for what’s theirs.
This is just the beginning—four new books, four dangerously irresistible men, and one relentless, dark descent.
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*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
ALINA
Iflattened my back against the wall, shrinking into the shadows.
He was here.
Pavel Ivanov.
His very name a threat.
He was the kind of man whispered about in the back rooms of bars but never spoken about above a hush. As if saying his name too loudly would summon the devil himself.
Dangerous. Unhinged. Mafia.
The kind of man women craved for a forbidden one-night stand, an encounter that would haunt their fantasies forever…assuming they survived…but would run screaming from when it came to boyfriend material.
When he first arrived from Russia, he was all my coworkers would gossip about.
They would relate stories about passing him in a hallway, or being trapped in an elevator with him, as if they had survived a brush with death.
I'd kept my mouth shut about my own run-in with him.
It'd happened the first week he arrived.
I was supposed to be alone on that office floor. Just me, my vacuum, the fake lemon scent of furniture polish, and the rhythmic hum of music through my headphones to keep me company through another night of cleaning the lower offices and meeting spaces in the boutique hotel.
After I'd accidentally knocked over a trash can with the cord of my vacuum cleaner, I’d been on my hands and knees picking up the thin strips of shredded paper that had tumbled out, sneezing from all the kicked-up paper dust, when a low male rumble said, "Bud' zdorova."
I froze.
It was him. I knew it without even looking.
I held my breath, keeping my head down, hoping—praying—he would just walk away.
He didn’t.
The excruciating silence warred with the panicked screeches in my mind.
When I couldn’t take the tension a moment longer, I dared to look.
Slowly, my gaze traveled from the tips of his black combat boots up over his dark denim jeans to his fitted black T-shirt, which showcased his full sleeve-tattooed arms.
The man was nothing but raw brutality wrapped in sinister ink.
The tattoos crept up his neck in intricate patterns and were even etched across his face. Everyone knew that anyone with face tattoos was someone to be feared and avoided at all costs. It was the ultimate zero-fucks-given power move.
Pavel Ivanov stood over me, his intense, gunmetal stare holding the cold calculation of a man who had earned his reputation for seizing what he wanted without hesitation or remorse.
When I’d heard my coworkers’ stories about him, I’d honestly thought it was just Russian. Nope. His intimidating presence alone was a warning, without him even having to speak.
Of course, the terrifying-Russian-thing didn’t hurt.
I knew too well what men like him were capable of.
Learning the harsh lesson from the time I was a child: that money and power didn't make a man civilized.
The only trace of warmth about Pavel was his amused grin as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. There was no way to tell how long he had been there.
I’d known better than to look. To see. To know.
When I was hired, my boss had been very clear about the rules.
See nothing.
Say nothing.
Hear nothing.
The man had actually pointed to one of those silly monkey sculptures on his desk to reinforce what he was saying.
Judging by the criminal clientele in the building, what my boss had really meant to convey was…
See no evil.
Say no evil.
Hear no evil.
Literally…
It was why this job paid twice as much as similar positions everywhere else.
Crime paid.
They paid for discretion. For blind silence.
My job, as part of the overnight crew, wasn't just to clean.
It was to keep my head down and my mouth shut.
Usually that wasn't a problem.
Until that moment.
Not knowing what to do, I'd squeaked out a weak “thank you” before turning on my knees to shove the fistfuls of paper I was still clutching into my trash bag so I could get the hell out of there.
I’d realized my mistake when the silence in the room was pierced by the sharp intake of breath through his teeth.
There wasn't a doubt in my mind he was enjoying the view of my bent-over ass in yoga pants.
I closed my eyes as embarrassed agony warmed my cheeks.
Scrambling to my feet, I latched onto my cleaning cart and lowered my head, determined to slip past him.
No such luck.
He’d stretched his arm across the door, barring my escape. Then his free hand had caught my chin, forcing my face up to meet his. "What is your name, little one?"
The thick Russian accent had made his question sound more like the growl of a black bear despite the highly inappropriate endearment. His touch had burned against my skin, unwanted heat spreading through me even as fear tightened within me.
I’d swallowed hard as my hands grew slick against the plastic handle of my cart. Clearing my throat, I told him, "Mary."
A lie.
Before he could respond, I'd shoved the cart forward and ducked under his arm, breaking the spell of his touch. The cleaning cart clattered as I’d sprinted down the hall, praying with every fiber of my being that he wouldn't follow.