Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
He grunts at me and narrows his eyes. “I’ve loved Marissa for a lot longer than we’ve had rings on our fingers.”
“I know it, brother,” I tell him. “Just giving you shit. Go on.”
“Aren’s sister is single, lives with him on their compound. Young. I don’t know much about her, and haven’t seen a recent picture, but I met her years ago when I first came to America. And she was a beauty then. I imagine she’s only grown more beautiful.”
Seconds ago, this idea seemed preposterous, but now that I’m beginning to think about it, I’m warming to the idea.
“You think he’d let her go to pay off his debt?”
“With enough persuasion? Hell yeah. And a good leader needs a wife. You’ve seen it yourself. There’s something to be said for having a woman to come home to. The most powerful men in the brotherhood are all married.”
He’s right. Just last week, I met with Demyan from Moscow and his wife Larissa. He brings her everywhere with him. The two are inseparable. And he’s risen to be one of the most powerful men the Bratva has ever known.
“And face it, Tomas. You’re not exactly in the position to meet a pretty girl at church.”
I huff out a laugh. The men of the Bratva rarely obtain women by traditional means.
I lift my phone and dial Lev.
“Boss?”
“Get me a picture of Aren Kosolov’s sister,” I tell him. Our resident hacker and computer genius, Lev works quickly and efficiently.
“Give me five minutes,” he says.
“Done.”
I hang up the phone and turn to Nicolai. “I want to see her first,” I tell him.
“Of course.”
“How’s Marissa?”
He fills me in about home, his voice growing softer as he talks about Marissa, but I’m only half-listening to him. I’m thinking about the way a woman changes a man, and how he’s changed because of her.
Do I need a wife?
The better question is, do I want Aren Kosolov’s sister to be the one?
My phone buzzes, and Nicolai gestures for me to answer it. A text from Lev with a grainy picture pops up on the screen, followed by a text.
There are no recent pictures. This was from a few years ago, but it should give you a good idea.
Still, it’s a full profile picture. I murmur appreciatively. Wavy, unruly chestnut hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, with fetching tendrils curling around her forehead. Haunting hazel colored eyes below dark brows. High cheekbones, her skin flushed pink, and full, pink lips. She’s thin and graceful, though if I’m honest, a little too thin for me. The women I bed tend to be sturdier and curvy, able to withstand the way I like to fuck.
I don’t want to have this conversation via text. I call him and he answers right away.
“Background?” I ask.
“Never went to college. Under her brother’s watchful eye since her father died.”
“Lovely,” I mutter. He might not give her up easily.
“Temperament?” I ask, aware that I sound like I’m asking about adopting a puppy, but it fucking matters.
“Not sure, but she has no record on file at school or legally. Perfect record. Graduated top of her class in high school.” He snorts. “Volunteers in a soup kitchen in San Diego and attends the Orthodox Church on the weekend.”
Ah. A good girl. Points in her favor. Sometimes the good girls fall hard, and sometimes they’re tougher to break, but they intrigue me.
“Boyfriend?”
“None.”
“Name?”
“Caroline.”
“Caroline?” I repeat. “That isn’t a Russian name.”
“Her mother was American.”
I nod thoughtfully. Caroline Koslov.
She would take my name.
Caroline Dobrynin.
I drum my fingers on my desk, contemplating. I nod to Nicolai when I instruct Lev. “Get Aren on the phone.”
Chapter 2
Caroline
It’s still dark when I wake, but the black outside my window is already beginning to turn to light. I reach over to shut off the blaring alarm on my phone and it goes skidding to the floor, spinning out.
“Crap,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes and sitting up in bed. God, I wish I’d woken sooner. I don’t remember my dream, but it was unpleasant, the weight of it still on my chest, my eyes gritty with sleep. Was I crying? I haven’t slept well in years, but I rarely remember what I dream. Maybe I don’t even dream. Maybe I just want to escape into a new life and new place, away from the domineering ways of my brother and the men who obey his orders.
Yawning, I stumble in the dark, reaching for my phone, until I finally find it. I take my glasses off the bedside table and slide them on my face, blinking into the dark room. I groan out loud when I look at my phone. The damn thing’s shattered. I don’t much care about communicating with anyone. No one texts me, and I deleted all social media off my phone a while ago. But I love to read, I keep my books private on an app, and I hate that the stupid thing is broken. I’ll have to find a way to fix it.