Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
No. Not somewhere. Someone.
I shake my head and reset the focus, but my fingers stay on the buttons too long. A second passes. Then another. It’s useless. The image in my head isn’t the lights or the rain or the city’s moody backdrop.
It’s him.
His hands on me, the way they linger just long enough to leave an impression as hot as a brand. The low timbre of his voice when he murmurs something teasing and sharp, a challenge laced with a dare. The heat in his eyes when he looks at me—like I’m something rare, something he’s already decided is… his.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and my hand slips, jarring the camera. “Shit,” I whisper, cradling the lens as I try to reset the shot again. Focus, I tell myself. Just focus.
But the truth is, I’ve lost the thread completely. My eyes drift to my phone resting on the edge of my camera bag. I resist the urge to check it—for messages, notifications, anything. He hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, but I know he isn’t far away.
Or is he?
The lights blur in the lens again, and this time, I don’t even try to fix it. I set the camera down, my breath catching as my thoughts spiral back to him. I’m gonna give myself a minute to indulge the fantasy, to be as fucking obsessed about him as he is about me.
What’s he doing right now? Thinking about me? Planning something?
My heart beats faster at the thought, and I press my hands to my thighs, willing the adrenaline to fade. But it doesn’t. Not when every part of me is tuned to him like a live wire.
The camera sits forgotten on my lap as I stare out at the city, my pulse pounding in sync with his memory. I know then… it’s hopeless. I’ve got a big, head-over-heels, heart-pounding crush for the guy.
I send him a message but it goes unreturned. I barely stifle the need to pout.
I need to talk with someone.
I pull up the app and message Bookbabe.
I haven’t heard from my stalker.
Bookbabe
Nooooooo. He posted last night, though, didn’t he?? Did you shamelessly flirt with him, or…?
I did and he responded and then nothing
Bookbabe
Oooh. Does he…usually respond to you more often? Maybe he’s… I dunno, like… offing someone or unaliving them or whatever tf mafia men do? What DO Bratva men do?
I don’t want to know but I think it’s more than that?
Jesus. I hope it’s more than that.
Also? I’m not lying. I truly have no idea what he does because I would hazard a guess that nearly everything is… well, not exactly legal.
We joke in the romance community about these guys who are morally gray. But how gray is he? Are we talking a little bit of smoke mixed in with mostly white-gray? Or are we talking, like… charcoal gray?
Gunmetal gray?
Gah.
He did say he had a job to do before he broke into my apartment, and… my cheeks flush pink.
Bookbabe
Do you think something is wrong???
Oh god.
Oh god.
Why the hell has it never occurred to me that whatever he does for his family isn’t just dangerous, it’s probably life-threatening?
It’s like I’ve never read any of the books that go into great detail about the risks and dangers, for crying out loud. This is partly my fault for dwelling so much in my fantasyland happy endings that I’ve forgotten his job is high-risk.
I do a quick search online. Bratva jobs.
What the hell am I doing? Like they’re going to be listed in a classified section online or something.
But the hits come hard and fast, and I can’t help but read them.
I hesitate for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, like a reckless idiot, I type the words into the search bar: Bratva deaths.
The screen fills almost instantly. Headlines, articles, grim photos. It’s a deluge of violence, and I should stop scrolling, but I can’t. Each click pulls me deeper, the stories blurring together.
"High-ranking Bratva member found dead in Moscow alley."
"Explosive car bombing tied to Russian organized crime."
"Federal crackdown on Bratva operations leaves dozens arrested."
I click one article. Then another. And another. Each one I read is more gruesome than the last.
A politician found shot execution-style in broad daylight. A businessman’s body discovered weighted at the bottom of a river. A nightclub leveled in a firebombing.
Oh my fucking god.
Each story tightens the knot in my stomach. This isn’t just some romanticized, book-boyfriend fantasy.
This is… this is his world.
Rodion’s world.
I dig deeper. The arrests. Some of them make the news—sleek photos of men in tailored suits being led away in cuffs. Others… don’t. They disappear, swallowed up by the system or something worse. The price of getting caught is isolation, surrendering any possibility of a relationship.
And the deaths? From what I’m reading? Those are the lucky ones.