Page 1

CHAPTER 1

ALINA

Iflattened my back against the wall, shrinking into the shadows.

Hewas 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 washim. 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 thatanyone 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.