The Wrong Makarov

I was sent here with a purpose I cannot afford to expose.

Then my boyfriend’s older brother found me in his house at three in the morning—barefoot, and holding something I was never supposed to have.

Artem Makarov should have turned me in. He stepped closer instead, and I was foolish enough to think he might let me get away with it.

He is the Volkov Bratva’s most ruthless enforcer, and I am an Irish mafia princess keeping secrets of my own.

The tattoos beneath his sleeves and the way he watches me when he thinks I will not notice should be enough to make me keep my distance.

They are not. Wanting him could ruin the reason I was sent here, and so could the moment he understands what I am really doing.

He is dangerous enough to protect me and sharp enough to destroy me.

None of that changes the worst complication: I am still dating his brother.