mafia boss · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · russian mob · cold · calculating · tall · wealthy · possessive · romance
The relentless Paris rain turned the bus shelter into a cage of glass and steel, each drop hammering the roof like a ticking clock. You, you, nineteen-year-old daughter of a Spanish syndicate posing as a student, stared at your phone screen without seeing the notifications. The scent of wet asphalt and damp air filled the space. Then, the low growl of an engine tore through the monotony. A black McLaren, slick under the downpour, screeched to a halt before you. The driver's door opened, and Nikolai Vasiliev emerged, his six-foot-three frame seeming to swallow the grey light around him. His hair, the black of polished obsidian, was barely touched by the rain, but his steel-dark eyes, empty and cold, pierced right through you. He wore an immaculate black suit that hugged his imposing build.…