Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
He texted back.
Now the Bratva owns me.
It was supposed to be a rant to the date who stood me up.
Instead, I got Sergei Volkov.
Cold. Ruthless. Powerful.
The kind of man you don’t say no to.
He took me to dinner.
Then took me apart in bed.
No names. No strings.
Just the best night of my life.
I never expected to see him again...
Until he walked into my ER—
While I was already five weeks pregnant.
Now he wants me under his roof, caring for his ailing mother.
I need the money.
But how do I hide his baby...
When he watches me like he already owns me?
Because Sergei isn't just any man.
He’s a Pakhan.
A ruthless Russian crime boss with blood on his hands.
And once he finds out what I’m hiding...
He’ll never let me go.
This is a full-length standalone mafia romance. No cliff hanger. Happily ever after guaranteed
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
NICOLE
Hey, asshole. Did you seriously just leave while I was in the bathroom?
I stand on the side of the road, arms crossed over my chest, glaring at my phone like it personally betrayed me. The chilly night air bites at my exposed skin, as my little black dress offers zero protection against the elements. But I’m too pissed to care. I can’t believe this actually happened to me. My date freaking bailed in the middle of dinner.
I don’t expect an immediate reply. Honestly, I don’t expect a reply at all. So when my phone vibrates in my hand a second later, my heart gives a stupid little lurch. Maybe there’s a logical explanation. Maybe his mom called with an emergency. I’m a nurse, so I could understand that. I’m not remotely prepared for the lame-ass excuse that pops up.
Who’s this?
I blink at the screen. What the actual hell? First he bails, now he’s playing dumb? I’m poised to unleash several choice words when a horrific thought hits me. I double-check the number I saved from the dating app, and a chill washes over me. Shit. I transposed two numbers.
Uh, I think I have the wrong number. Ignore me.
I move to lock my phone and hail a taxi, but another message comes through.
Too late. I’m intrigued.
A shiver runs down my spine, and this time, it has nothing to do with the cold.
I chew my lip, considering. I have no idea who this person is, whether they’re even a man or a woman. But I’m still wired from the adrenaline rush of being abandoned mid-date, and a little conversation won’t kill me.
Intrigued by what? Some random woman cussing out her bad date? Not much of a story.
Depends. What’s my competition look like?
I snort. The man bailed while I was reapplying my lip gloss, leaving a half-finished cocktail and zero explanation. He’s hardly competition for anyone.
Unless you’re a cowardly man who sneaks off when your date used the restroom, there’s no contest.
So I win by default.
The sheer cockiness makes me laugh. My irritation evaporates, replaced by amused curiosity, as I slide into the cab idling at the curb. Once I’m settled, I turn back to the conversation.
That depends. What exactly did you win?
I won the chance to prove to you that not all men are spineless idiots.
I can’t deny the man has game. I have a decision now. I could keep up the flirtation with some random, faceless stranger, or block this number, go home, and drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine.
I shift in the back seat and feel a surge of boldness I haven’t tasted in ages. Flirty texting it is.
Bold assumption. Maybe I was only looking for a one-night stand.
So you want a spineless asshole sleeping in your bed tonight?
My stomach tightens as embarrassment washes over me. Who is this stranger to question what kind of man I take home? I’m tempted again to just block his number and call it a night, but I can’t help but fire back.
Who’s to say I would want a guy like you sleeping in my bed?
If I were in your bed, there wouldn’t be much sleeping happening. And I happen to have a very sturdy spine.
I bite my lip, grinning at the screen. Who is this guy? When the cab stops, the driver barely glances up as I pay and slip out. Phone in hand, I walk toward my apartment.
A smooth talker, eh? That only works on me if you look good doing it.
A photo comes through, and even though it shows only half his face and the broad planes of his chest, it does wicked things to me.
Does that work for you?
My breath catches. Holy hell. Cocky and hot? My night just took a sharp turn for the better. Yet a cautious voice whispers that I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t even know this man. But he’s leaps and bounds hotter than my runaway dinner date.
I step into my apartment, skin flushed and a familiar heat pooling between my thighs. It’s ridiculous that one sexy half of a face and chest is all it takes. Paired with his words and the sting of being ditched, I’m already buzzing.
You’re trouble, aren’t you?
Only the best kind, malyshka.
I quickly Google the word, and holy hell, the translation sends a flutter through my chest. I perch on the edge of my bed and squeeze my thighs together, desperate for a sliver of friction. I wonder if this stranger really could ruin me. I could desperately use a little ruining.
My fingers hover over the keyboard before I finally tap out the next text. I know it’ll only fan the flames. Without second-guessing, I hit send and let out a little squeal as I stare at the screen.
I’m home.
I wait with staggered breath as I watch him type.