I don’t want a wife. I don’t need a wife. But it appears I’ll be selecting one.
Andrey Morozov I’ve worked toward this for ten years, a New York State Supreme Court Judgeship. Suddenly, the bootlickers in the legal community think I don’t look stable enough as a single man?
What they should be worried about is what I plan to do on the bench. Because there is nothing more dangerous than a vicious lord of organized crime, wrapped in a judge’s robe.
The Morozov Bratva will be untouchable. When my cousin Roman’s sister-in-law gets thrown in jail for a silly crime that she should have pulled off with ease, I’ve found my bride.
Iris is beautiful, clever, and infuriating. I’ll bail her out, hand her a wedding dress and marry her. Whether she wants to marry me is immaterial to my plans. She doesn’t have a choice.
Iris Morozova How did this happen to me?
I don’t know what made the most terrifying and remote of the Morozov men decide that I was going to be the sacrificial bride laid upon the altar of his ambition, but here I am, locked up in his dark, Gothic penthouse.
I know the Bratva code. I may be trapped for life as Andrey’s bride, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to make him regret it.
