Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Gennadiy Aristov. The dark heart of the Aristov mafia. Gorgeous, cruel and with a legendary temper, he leaves his enemies wrapped in chains at the bottom of Lake Michigan and his lovers heartbroken and a monster like him has no capacity to care, let alone love.
And me? I'm the thorn in his side, the FBI agent assigned to bring him down. Locked together in a battle of wills, he becomes my obsession...and the star of all my fantasies. He's the enemy, no different to the gangsters who killed my parents. So why am I starting to imagine those big, tattooed hands roaming all over my body? Why does he save me, when he should be trying to kill me? And why is he the only man who understands me?
Everything gets turned upside down when I stumble upon a conspiracy that goes to the heart of both the Bratva and the FBI. Framed and on the run, the only way to clear my name is to team up with my enemy. Now I'm deep in his world of luxury and danger...and falling for a man who's more complex than anyone knows. Can I help him defeat the demons that hold us apart...before enemies from our past destroy us both?
Standalone Russian Mafia romantic suspense with no cliffhanger and guaranteed HEA. Contains scenes that could be triggering for some see the copyright page for content advisory
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
ALISON
It didn’t start with love. It started with hate.
I leaned hard into the corner, my knee an inch from the asphalt. The big motorcycle teetered on its wheels, a tenth of a degree from tipping and crushing me. At the very last second, I twisted the throttle and the bike roared like a bad-tempered bull and rocketed forward, trying to pull itself from between my legs. We swept around a delivery truck, so close I nearly cracked my head on its side mirror, and then we were speeding away up the street, slaloming between the slow-moving cars just for the hell of it.
It’s lucky that I don’t spend much on clothes or make-up or going out, because my bike drinks oil and demands a constant supply of eye-wateringly expensive spare parts. But it’s worth it. I have this...rage inside me, a toxic pressure that builds and builds. It powers me, non-stop: keep working, keep moving, keep pushing, and the only thing I’ve ever found that quiets it is this.
I leaned into the next corner, sliding around an SUV like an ice skater. I straightened up, glanced ahead to plan my next move, and—
An icy hand grabbed my heart and crushed it so hard it couldn’t beat.
Further down the street, an army of firefighters was spraying water into a bright orange glow. Clouds of steam and smoke cloaked the building, but I knew what was there.
I cranked the throttle and accelerated, praying. Please no. Please let it be the one next door. Please! But as I neared the police barricades, my stomach dropped. The flames were shooting out from between beautiful, white stone pillars. No!
I slowed and pulled up beside a police cruiser. As soon as the cooling rush of the slipstream fell away, the June heat wrapped around me. Even at nearly eleven at night, it was stifling. I quickly unzipped my leather jacket, then stashed my helmet on my bike and ran towards the police Do Not Cross line. An officer raised his hand to stop me, then waved me through when I flashed him my FBI badge.
I found Mrs. McCullen by a fire truck, tear trails cutting lines through the soot on her face. A poster for this season’s play, Much Ado About Nothing, was on fire on one of the pillars, and the charred pieces were wafting down around her.
She turned to me and opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find any words. I threw my arms around her and hugged her close. Over the top of her snow-white hair, I watched the fire gut one of the most beautiful buildings in Chicago. The place was over a hundred years old, and everything, from the mosaic on the lobby floor to the amazing, vaulted ceilings, was original. But that wasn’t why my stomach was in a tight knot, seeing it on fire.
Mrs. McCullen runs the Chicago Community Theater, a non-profit that puts on plays with the help of volunteers, most of them from disadvantaged backgrounds. It’s a place where anyone can practice a talent or learn a skill, a supportive place where you can escape your problems a few nights a week. I’ve seen a former addict get and stay clean as she worked away sewing costumes. I’ve seen a broken, silent guy who lost his kid in a car crash finally come out of himself as he learned to dance for a part in West Side Story. All of that was being turned to ash. But that wasn’t what hurt the most, either.
Before it became the Community Theater, the building had been the Chicago School of Dance, run by my mom, and I’d been practically raised there. The memories rushed in: sitting on the cool stone floor of my mom’s office, coloring in a coloring book while she finished work; my dad lifting me up to hang tinsel in the main hall; standing at the barre doing my stretches when I was old enough to start ballet myself.
Then, when I was twelve, my whole life changed in a heartbeat. My parents were ripped from me and this building became the only shred of my past I had left. That’s why I’d always supported the Community Theater. I wanted the place to stay open, stay alive...and now it was gone forever. It felt like someone had reached down inside me and torn out part of my soul. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my breathing went tight.
A firefighter emerged from the building, coughing, and stumbled over to the fire chief. “No one inside,” he told the chief. “But you better get the arson team in here, I could smell the chemicals. Definitely deliberate.”
I was still hugging Mrs. McCullen, and I felt my body tense against hers. The rage inside me woke and expanded, heating to a fierce scarlet.