Insufferable Enemy (The Morozov Bratva #2)

PROLOGUE

SLOANE

The CUNY campus shines under the spring sun, students moving between buildings with the frantic energy of the end of the semester.

I've taken a seat on one of the more secluded benches, trying to review my notes on Criminal Procedure before tomorrow's exam, but the words dance before my eyes, refusing to sink in.

I'm exhausted. Double shifts at The Copper Still, night classes, and having Harper so far away are taking their toll. Just talking to her on the phone isn't enough.

"Sloane Murphy?"

I look up from my notes to find a woman wearing an impeccable tailored suit and a man who looks like your typical suburban dad. Something about their posture—too stiff to be casual—sets off my internal alarms.

"Who are you?" I ask, closing my notebook. My hand slides instinctively toward the pepper spray I always carry in my pocket.

The woman smiles.

"I'm Special Agent Smith," she says, discreetly flashing a badge. "And this is my partner, Special Agent Roberts. We're with the FBI. We'd like to speak with you about Harper Keller."

My blood freezes. The FBI. Asking about Harper. All my fears materialize in an instant.

"Did something happen to her?" My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears.

"Can we sit?" Roberts asks, gesturing to the bench.

I nod mechanically, unable to process what's happening. They both take a seat, one on either side of me, creating a subtle barrier that makes me feel trapped.

"Ms. Murphy," Smith starts, her voice carefully modulated. "We understand that you and Harper Keller are very close."

"She's my best friend," I reply automatically. "Since high school. We were roommates until... until she left."

Roberts leans slightly toward me.

"Do you know exactly where your friend is right now?"

"In Las Vegas," I say, confusion mixing with my growing anxiety. "Married to Alexei Morozov. He's a casino owner. I visited her a few months ago."

The agents exchange a look that makes my stomach twist.

"Ms. Murphy, what we're about to share with you is classified information," Smith says, lowering her voice. "We need your word that this stays between us."

"What's going on?" I demand, my patience running out. "Is Harper in trouble?"

Roberts discreetly pulls a tablet from his bag, unlocks it, and offers it to me.

"This is Alexei Morozov."

The screen displays a file. The photograph is of Alexei, Harper's husband, in his immaculate suit and impenetrable expression.

But what leaves me breathless is the text underneath: Pakhan of the Morozov Bratva.

Russian criminal organization operating on the West Coast. Suspected of multiple counts of extortion, arms trafficking, money laundering. ..

The list goes on, but my brain has already stopped processing.

The mob. Harper is married to a Russian mobster.

"This can't..." I shake my head, unable to accept it. "There must be a mistake. Harper would've told me."

"Do you really believe that?" Smith asks softly. "Or do you think she might be protecting someone? You, perhaps?"

Fragments of conversations with Harper come rushing back. Her evasive answers about how she met Alexei. The way she changed the subject when I asked if she was happy.

I knew she was hiding something from me.

"We believe Harper Keller isn't in Las Vegas by choice," Roberts continues. "Our sources indicate she was kidnapped as part of a personal vendetta by Morozov against Liam Keller."

"Her father?" I frown. "They barely spoke. He was always 'too busy' for her or trying to control her life."

"Because Liam Keller has shady dealings of his own," Smith explains. "A conflict between the two organizations culminated in Harper's disappearance. And then, suddenly, she's married to Morozov."

My mind races, processing every piece of information. Tears threaten to spill, but I hold them back. Now isn't the time for weakness.

"Are you telling me my best friend was kidnapped, forced into marriage, and is living with a mobster in Las Vegas?" My voice trembles with rage. "And nobody has done anything about it?"

"It's complicated," Roberts admits. "We don't have enough evidence for direct intervention. Morozov is extremely careful."

The world stops.

I stand up abruptly, unable to stay seated. Nausea rises in my throat. Harper. My Harper. Kidnapped and forcibly married to a monster.

"Oh my God." I run my hands through my hair. "I have to do something. I have to get her out of there."

"That's exactly what we wanted to talk to you about," Roberts says, standing up too. "We need your help, Ms. Murphy."

I turn toward them, suddenly suspicious.

"My help? For what? You're the damn FBI. Can't you just go in and arrest him?"

"It's not that simple," Smith replies. "Morozov has powerful connections, even within law enforcement. Any rash move would put Harper in grave danger."

Roberts takes a step toward me, lowering his voice even more.

"But you... you have something we don't. Access. Harper trusts you. And according to our reports, Morozov has allowed you to visit his wife without excessive restrictions."

The reality of what they're suggesting hits me like a train.

"You want me to be your informant," I say, disbelief coloring my voice. "To infiltrate a Russian mobster's organization. Are you completely crazy?"

"We want you to help your friend," Smith corrects. "To provide us with information we can use to build a solid case. To get Harper out of there safely. To take down all his businesses and put him behind bars."

My mind spins, looking for alternatives, loopholes, any other solution. But deep down, I know they're right. If Harper is truly trapped, if she's being forced to stay with that man, then she needs all the help she can get.

And no one knows her like I do.

"Assuming I accepted," I say slowly, "how would it work exactly?"

Roberts looks relieved by my change in attitude.

"It's simple. You move to Las Vegas. Find some excuse to be close to Harper. Observe. Listen. Report back routines, contacts, conversations. Anything that can help us build a case against Morozov."

"And keep Harper safe," I add firmly.

"That's the main objective," Smith nods, though something in her tone makes me doubt.

I look at them both, weighing the situation.

My instinct tells me to run in the opposite direction, to get away from this madness.

But then I think of Harper. Her bright smile, her gentle heart.

How she was always there for me, no matter what.

The idea of her being trapped, suffering, against her will. ..

"I need to see proof," I finally say. "Not just his police file. Proof that Harper is being held against her will."

Smith nods and swipes on the tablet, showing me another screen. It's a detailed report on Harper's disappearance: security cameras showing a van with no plates, witness testimonies, the total lack of preparation or luggage that contradicts the story of a whirlwind romance.

And then, photos of Harper in Las Vegas. Always accompanied by bodyguards. Always under surveillance. The expression on her face, which initially seemed neutral to me, now looks like a carefully maintained mask.

Roberts swipes to the next image and my breath catches. It's him. Alexei's brother. The man I met during my visit, whose presence disturbed me in ways I didn't want to analyze.

Dimitri Morozov.

Unlike Alexei, with his calculated coldness, Dimitri is all fire barely contained. Longer black hair, tied back carelessly. Tattoos peeking out from the collar of his t-shirt. And those eyes... even in the photograph, they hold an intensity that pierces right through me.

"This is Dimitri Morozov," Roberts explains. "Alexei's younger brother. His main enforcer. He handles the dirty work."

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the treacherous heat spreading through my body. It's ridiculous. The man is probably a killer. The brother of my best friend's kidnapper. And yet, there's something about him that awakens a visceral reaction that shames me every time I'm near him.

"I know him," I say dryly. "We met during my visit. He's not exactly the life of the party."

Smith smiles faintly.

"Dimitri could be an alternative way into the organization. According to our sources, he showed an... unusual interest in you during your stay."

I feel heat rush to my cheeks.

"We argued almost every time we saw each other," I explain. "We could barely be in the same room without wanting to tear each other's throats out."

"That doesn't mean he wasn't interested," Roberts observes with a tone that irritates me deeply.

I turn away, needing space, needing to think. The idea of using any kind of attraction, real or imagined, with Dimitri Morozov turns my stomach. And yet, if it helped Harper...

"What guarantees do I have that Harper won't get hurt?" I ask, returning to the main topic. "I won't do anything that puts her in danger."

"Our priority is to extract her unharmed," Smith replies. "We'll have an undercover agent as your contact in Las Vegas, and established emergency protocols. Your safety and Harper's are paramount."

I look at the photos again. Harper, with her smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Harper, with bodyguards trailing her like shadows.

My decision is made, even if every cell in my body screams that it's insane.

"Okay," I say finally. "I'll do it. For Harper."

Roberts nods, the satisfaction evident on his face.

"Excellent. We'll establish a credible cover. Perhaps a transfer to UNLV to continue your law studies."

"I can tell her I decided to move to be close to her."

Smith looks impressed by my quick thinking.

"Perfect. Natural and credible. We'll provide you with legitimate transfer documents, in case Morozov investigates."

This is insanity.

I'm going to infiltrate a Russian mobster's organization. For Harper.

When the agents finally leave, I'm left alone on the bench, shivering despite the spring warmth. I pull out my phone and look at the last photo Harper sent me: her on her terrace, smiling in the Las Vegas sunset.

Is that the smile of a happy woman? Or the carefully constructed mask of a prisoner?

Doubt eats away at me, but the decision is made. I'm going to save Harper, whatever the cost.

Even if it means facing Dimitri Morozov again.

Especially if it means facing Dimitri Morozov.

Because what terrifies me most, what makes me tremble more than the prospect of infiltrating a criminal organization, is the way my body reacts to the mere memory of his gray eyes.

The way my pulse quickens when I think about our arguments, the tension that crackled between us like static electricity.

I hate him. I hate what he stands for. I hate that he's part of the system keeping Harper captive. If he were a decent man, he would've stopped his brother from kidnapping my friend, from forcing her to marry him.

And yet...

I look at the image on my phone again, but my thoughts aren't with Harper. They're with her brother-in-law. With his tattoos, his stormy eyes, his presence that fills any room.

This forbidden attraction could be my best weapon. Or my undoing.

Only time will tell.

With trembling fingers, I dial Harper's number. It's time to set the plan in motion. It's time to walk willingly into the wolf's den.

A wolf with gray eyes and a dangerous smile who, God help me, makes me feel more alive than I've felt in years.