He spent one night with me. Then he vanished. Now he's my new boss— and he has no idea I'm carrying his child.

I don't sleep with strangers. But the Russian who told me my gallery's prized painting was a lie wearing a costume wasn't like other men, and for one night at the Plaza I let myself be reckless. By morning he was gone. No call. No name I could trace. Just a memory, and eight weeks later, two pink lines.

I built a life around being left. My mother walked out when I was four; I learned early that wanting something is how you lose it. So I did the only thing I knew how to do— I prepared to raise my daughter alone.

Then a wealthy new client requests me by name for a private collection. The address is a warehouse in Brighton Beach. And the man behind the desk ishim.

Maksim Volkov. Bratva boss. The most dangerous man in New York. The father of my child.

He didn't abandon me— he was torn away, and he's spent months tearing the city apart to find me. Now he knows about the baby, and a man like Maksim doesn't ask. He takes care of what's his. He moves me into his world of guards and walls and beautiful cages, and swears no one will ever hurt us.

But the thing that nearly destroyed him once was never an enemy. It was love. And the harder this terrifying, possessive, broken man falls for me, the more his fear threatens to strangle the very thing he's trying to protect.

I survived being left. The question is whether I can survive being kept.