My ex dumped me by text.
So naturally, I got drunk, ugly-cried through three bottles of wine, and broke into my best friend's apartment wearing nothing but a hoodie and a green sheet mask.
What I didn't know?
He'd sublet it to a green-eyed Bratva killer-hotter than hell, meaner than sin, and absolutely not here for my meltdown.
Now, 100 days later, I'm not just his problem.
I'm his bride. And his baby mama.
Anton Malikov is not the kind of man you survive groping in a drunken haze.
Which is a problem... because I second-base'd him like he was a door handle and I was blindfolded.
Turns out breaking into the wrong apartment was just my warm-up act.
The real disaster started a few days later-when I accidentally uncovered a laundering scheme at work and got myself added to a Bratva kill list.