I Accidentally Married The Russian Mafia Boss Who Thought I Was His Assassin

Chapter 1: The $99 Bride The registry office smelled like old paper and cheap air freshener, and my $99 Goodwill wedding dress was falling apart. Literally. The safety pin at my back popped open as I stood up when the clerk called "Mia Carter?" I winced, reaching behind me to fix it. My grandmother's bakery was 72 hours from being seized by the bank. I owed $50,000. I had $12.47 in my account, a broken oven, and a landlord who had already changed the locks once just to scare me. I was not a bride. I was a desperate girl playing dress-up in a dead woman's dress. "Mia Carter? Last call." "Yes! Here!" I practically ran forward, clutching the folder with my ID, my social security card, and the foreclosure notice I had folded and refolded until the paper was soft. That was when the door slammed open and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He didn't walk in. He arrived. Like a storm. Six foot four, shoulders so broad they blocked the doorway. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Dark hair combed back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes - God, his eyes were pale grey, like ice over a frozen river. A thin silver scar cut through his left eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. Two mountains in human form followed him, both in suits, both scanning the room like they were looking for threats. Every single person in that waiting room suddenly found their phone very interesting. No one looked at him directly. It was animal instinct. You don't stare at a predator. Except me. I couldn't look away. His gaze swept the room once, cold, bored, dismissive - then landed on me in my too-big dress with my safety pins and my cheap shoes. And it stopped. He walked straight toward me. The two men followed. "You are Mia Carter," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was low, deep, with a thick Russian accent that made my skin prickle. "I... do I know you?" My voice cracked. "No. But you will be my wife." I choked on air. "I'm sorry, what?" Behind him, one of his men stepped forward and held out a manila folder. I opened it without thinking. It was my file. My bakery's profit and loss statement for the last three years. My bank statements. My grandmother's death certificate. A photo of me this morning, crying outside the bakery after the bank manager told me there were no extensions. And the foreclosure notice. The exact one I had crumpled and thrown into the trash outside City Hall at 8:17 a.m. How did he get it? How did he know my name? "Who are you?" I whispered, backing up a step. My back hit the clerk's counter. "Ivan Volkov." He said the name like I should know it. Like it should mean something. It did. Everyone in Brooklyn knew the Volkov name, even if you pretended you didn't. They owned half the warehouses on the waterfront. The nightclubs that never closed. The construction companies that never seemed to run out of money. My grandmother used to cross herself whenever their black SUVs drove past our street. "Bad men, Masha. Very bad men who think they are kings." This was a Volkov. And he was looking at me like I was a contract he was about to sign. "My grandfather died four days ago," he continued, calm, businesslike, as if we were discussing a delivery of flour. "His will is... traditional. To inherit the Volkov Bratva, I must be married. Legally married. For at least one year. My cousins are contesting. They want the empire." Bratva. The Russian mafia. I felt dizzy. "I need a wife. For appearances only. No family, no boyfriend, no one who will ask questions. Clean record. Desperate enough to not say no." His eyes dropped to my dress, to my shaking hands. "You match all criteria." I was offended and terrified at the same time. "I am not desperate enough to marry a stranger! Especially not a- a-" "Gangster?" He finished for me, a flicker of amusement in those cold eyes. "Yes. I am." The second man opened a briefcase. Money. Stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills, banded together. More cash than I had ever seen in my life. "Fifty thousand dollars today. In cash. You pay your bank. You keep your bakery. Another fifty thousand in one year when we divorce. And during the marriage, your debts are my debts. Your problems are my problems. No one will bother you again." My mouth went dry. One hundred thousand dollars. For one year of pretending. "One year?" I repeated. "One year. You live in my penthouse. Separate bedrooms. You continue your little bakery if you wish. You attend dinners with me when I require it. You smile. You wear the ring. In return, you are protected. And paid." He made it sound so simple. The clerk cleared her throat loudly. "Miss Carter, I have six other couples. Are you getting married today or are you taking up space?" Ivan didn't look at her. He looked at me. And he reached out. His hand was huge, warm, calloused. He took my left hand in his. My fingers were covered in a faint dusting of flour no matter how much I washed them. His were scarred at the knuckles. "This is not romance, devushka," he said quietly, so only I could hear. Devushka. Little girl. "This is business. But I protect what is mine. And for one year, you will be mine." I should have said no. Every sane part of my brain was screaming NO, RUN, THIS IS HOW GIRLS DISAPPEAR IN MOVIES. But then I saw it. Behind him, through the registry office window - a city tow truck was hooking up to my beat-up old Honda, the only car I had left. They were taking everything. Piece by piece. I thought of my grandmother's voice. "Bread is love made visible, Masha. Never let them take your oven." I squeezed his hand back before I could change my mind. "Okay," I breathed. "Okay, I'll do it. One year. Business only." Something flashed in his eyes. Satisfaction. Victory. And something darker, something that looked almost like hunger. "Good girl," he murmured in Russian. The clerk slammed the paperwork down. "Names, IDs, witnesses. Let's go." Ivan Volkov turned to his men. "Witnesses." And just like that, with a $99 dress and a man whose suit cost more than my entire life, I was about to become Mrs. Volkov. The wife of the Russian mafia boss who thought I was just a fake bride for a year. He had no idea I was about to become his biggest problem.