Mafia King's Reluctant Bride

Georgia

“Let me help you…”

I was crying before those words reached me, but the moment I heard them, laughter tore from my throat. Bitter, jagged and unexpectedly unhinged. My whole body shook with it as I raised my head, only to meet the cold grey eyes of the most feared man in Manhattan.

Rhys Mikhailov.

Mafia billionaire. Ruthless kingpin. A man whose name alone made seasoned criminals bow, whose reputation made politicians choke on their words.

His was the face that dominated headlines, wealth that exceeded imaginations, sin written into every smirk, and a body sculpted like temptation itself. A man so fine it hurts. It's something I hate to admit, but that will only make me a pathetic liar.

Even in a simple black tailored suit, he looked ungodly beautiful. His tie loosened just enough to look decent.

And not to mention his eyes. Steel grey, merciless, like winter itself had taken form in his gaze.

I had no business laughing at him. Yet I did. I couldn't help it.

“Sorry, what?” My voice trembled with amusement I didn’t truly feel.

He didn’t blink. Not even once, as if my mockery wasn’t enough to have me slaughtered and fed to his dogs for dinner.

“You heard me, Georgia.”

God, I hated him. Hated the calm authority dripping from his voice. Hated how it made my skin prickle with fear. Hated how perfectly my name escaped his unholy lips.

This was the same man who had just ripped my life apart. In less than twenty-four hours, I had lost everything. Fired from my job for writing a viral exposé about him. Evicted from my apartment by a landlord who suddenly “wanted the place back.” Hated online, blacklisted and abandoned.

And then his men came just moments after being soaked to the brim right outside my apartment, with only a few things I was able to get out, dragging me into a sleek black car while neighbors peeked from behind curtains, whispering like I was already dead. And maybe I'll be soon.

But here I was, in his study, a grand room drowning in luxury, while a desk of polished mahogany anchored the space. A decanter of whiskey gleamed by his elbow. Everything smelled of leather and wealth.

“Oh, hell I did,” I snapped, forcing courage into my voice. “But why would I accept help from a monster like you? No sane person would, even if you served it on a platter of gold, Mr. Mikhailov.”

His lips curled like a serpent. “You’re the first to reject me outright. I'm impressed.”

I pushed myself up from the rug where I had landed after his men shoved me inside. My fists balled. My body trembled. Before I realized what I was doing, my hand swung toward his face—

—but he caught me with humiliating ease. His fingers locked around my wrist, firm but effortless. And with one tug, I slammed against his chest.

Heaven help me. This man was definitely built from bricks. Heat bled from him through the thin fabric of his shirt, intoxicating and wrong.

But then again, what was I thinking trying to hit Rhys?

I sucked in a sharp breath, hissing. “You pathetic killer—”

“Shhh.” His voice was low, yet mocking. One hand pinned my wrist; the other slipped lazily into his pocket as though he had all the time in the world. “Anyone hearing you call me ‘killer’ might believe I actually murdered someone… when all I did was take your job. And render you incapable of ever getting another.”

His words burned. The bastard had the audacity to sum up my misery in a sentence.

“You’re the worst,” I spat, twisting helplessly. “What did I ever do to you, huh? What was so bad you had to strip me of everything I've ever worked for?”

He tilted his head, smirk never faltering. “Don’t you remember?” he asked, his brow raised in fake intrigue. “Didn’t you write an entire article tarnishing me like you’d known me all your life?”

I scoffed. “I’m a reporter, you sick bastard!”

“Fuck me…” He laughed, deep and mocking. “Do you know how turned on I get when a fiery mouth like yours curses?”

“You’re—”

“—the worst plague that could ever happen to a nation,” he finished smoothly. “Isn’t that what you wrote about me?”

My chest rose and fell too quickly. “I just told you—I’m a reporter!”

“Yes. The first bold enough to go viral backlashing me.”

And he was right. I hadn’t expected that article to get his attention. I just wanted a promotion. Instead, I lost my career, my reputation, and now I was locked in his study, alone with him. I hadn’t expected to become public enemy number one.

“I wrote the truth,” I hissed. “About you and what you are.”

“That’s sweet.” His smirk widened. “And what might that be?” He tugged me closer, drawing a sharp gasp from my lips. “Tell me—what exactly do you, the so-called defender of the universe, think I am?”

I swallowed, licking my dried lips. “Call it whatever. You’ve had your revenge on me already. But having me kidnapped and dragged here? I could sue you for this.”

“I won’t stop you from trying,” Rhys said easily, releasing me at last.

Air rushed into my lungs as he returned to his desk, sitting with the elegance of a man who knew the world bent for him.

“Sit.” He gestured toward the chair across from him.

“You can’t—”

“Sit, Georgia.” The look on his face told me enough that he's no longer in his playful time. “I asked nicely. If I have to say it again, you’ll be begging for the privilege.”

His grey eyes speared through me. Cold and absolute. Against every screaming instinct, I lowered myself into the chair. He studied me like I was prey, then slid a file across the desk. “I’m going to help you.”

I barked out a laugh. “Stop saying that. I’d rather bash my head open than accept anything from you.”

One brow rose, deliberate. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“I get it!” I leaned forward, voice breaking with rage. “You want to clean your filthy image. Offer me a job so I can undo the damage I caused. But I won’t. Everyone knows what you are, Mr. Rhys Mikhailov. They’re just too afraid to say it. I’m not.”

His laugh was low, amused, and it chilled me. “And here's where being bold gets you.” He paused before nodding at the file before me. “Open the file.”

I glared at the folder. “No.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“A choice over what?”

“Over fixing what you ruined.” His voice was calm, almost gentle. Which made it worse.

I don't recall my article doing any significant damage except from going viral. So I'm yet to understand where all this is headed.

“And if I refuse?”

He let out a slightly amused chuckle before he stood, slow and deliberate, and walked toward me, every inch of him radiating control. He spun my chair to face him, and leaned down until his face hovered inches from mine, his breath ghosting across my lips. My pulse betrayed me, stuttering wildly.

My breath faltered. His scent coiled around me, and to my horror, my body reacted. My heart pounded, heat surged through me, my gaze slipped toward his lips before I yanked it back.

“You can’t refuse,” he said, the words smooth and certain, and an involuntary tremor ran through my legs. “But let’s pretend you try. Then your career won’t be the only thing I kill.”

My throat closed. “You…”

His lips curved. “I’ll take that as consent. See? Our union is consensual. Didn’t even have to force you.”

Union. The word twisted in my stomach.

“What union?” I whispered. My body betrayed me again, leaning the slightest inch toward him before I caught myself.

“Open the file, Georgia.” He pulled back, returning to his chair as though the threat of death were casual conversation. He poured himself a glass of whiskey. “We’re getting married.”