The man who murdered her husband was the one who drove her home from the funeral.
She shed no tears for a man who had spent three years teaching her to flinch, yet the stranger at the cemetery gates had the same jaw and eyes, a crueler mouth, and he led her into the family mausoleum to tell her the truth: her husband had a twin erased from every story she had ever been told,
and Roman Volkonsky had killed him.
Ten years in Bratva exile had taught him how to end a man without a trace, and instead of running she admitted she was glad, then accepted ninety days under his protection if she would help him uncover what her husband had died hiding and walk away free.
It was supposed to be business, a temporary bond between a widow and a Bratva brother she had never been allowed to know, except Roman already knew her perfume, her favorite restaurant, and details no stranger should.
The Bratva has its own plans for widows, and she is beginning to believe he struck a deal with her long before she ever learned his name.
