dennovan.99

PROLOGUE

In the fanciest nightclub of La Nostra Terra, Italy, a girl is seen with a group of other girls, dancing and swaying their hips to the raucous rock beats.

She’s the center of attention, commanding every man’s center with each sway of her curvaceous hips. Every man in the nightclub wants a moment with her, but at the same time, they’re terrified to go close to her. So they just watch from a distance, wondering what she is doing in a nightclub, as she never comes to one.

When the night ends, the girl takes one last drink, and it gets her intoxicated. She excuses herself and heads for the restroom but loses her way and winds up in the suites.

Helplessly, she clings to the walls, fighting to pull herself together. But her head is thumping so hard, and it feels like it’s going to explode. She takes off her heels and squats in the hallway, hoping one of her friends will come to her rescue. She prays that her sister finds her here and takes her home. But no one comes to her rescue.

She feels frightened by the ogling of the men that pass the hallways. Tears trickle down her eyes as she regrets coming to the nightclub. She shouldn’t have let them convince her to come here. But then, she needed to celebrate her graduation. Still, coming here clearly isn’t worth it.

Slowly, she picks herself up and staggers into one of the rooms to rest for the night. Maybe tomorrow, she’ll feel better, and this night will be a forgotten nightmare. Maybe, or maybe not.

You don’t marry the devil and expect to walk away…

Two years ago, I made the most reckless decision of my life. I married a stranger — a dangerously sharp Russian with eyes like winter storms and a voice that curled around your spine.

It was supposed to be fake.
A quick, quiet wedding on a borrowed yacht.
A loophole to stop my billionaire father from selling me off to some corporate puppet in a boardroom marriage.

But the stranger-the man I begged for help—wasn’t just some wealthy businessman in an expensive suit. He was Mikhail Volkov. A Bratva king. Cold. Ruthless. Calculating.

I left him divorce papers and two million dollars on his bed the next morning… and vanished.

But the past doesn’t stay buried. And men like him don’t forget unfinished business.

Two years later, under a new name and a quiet life halfway across the world, I thought I was safe. Until my new company gets bought out. By him.

Mikhail Volkov.

He came for me.

And this time, running isn’t an option.

“Why the hell are you calling me your wife?” I snap, shoving the contract across his desk. “I paid you off. I left divorce papers. Signed.”

He steps closer, all tailored dominance and lethal calm, his voice low enough to scrape against my bones.
"You don’t end things with me unless I say so, moya zhena. And I don’t marry… to divorce."

I’m not free. I’m his unfinished business. And now? I belong to him… whether I want to or not.