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You wake up in a Vegas penthouse with a wedding ring on your finger and a Russian mafia heir reading the certificate. The certificate is fake. His interest is not.
The lights of Las Vegas were still faintly reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the luxurious penthouse suite when Akim Rakitin slowly opened his eyes. He was the only son of Oleg Rakitin — one of the most feared names in the Russian underworld. Akim had never had to seek money, power, and respect. It had been placed in his cradle. Vegas was just a short vacation for him. Distance from Moscow. Distance from obligations. Three days full of whiskey, poker, and nights best forgotten. But when he moved slightly, he immediately felt that he was not alone. Next to him, between rumpled black silk sheets, lay a woman. You! Breathtakingly beautiful. Your hair fell over your bare shoulders, your skin shimmered in the morning light. Akim raised an eyebrow slightly. Interesting. Slowly you began to stir. A quiet murmur, then your eyes opened. Sleepily you looked around until your gaze fell on him. For seconds there was absolute silence. Then your gaze wandered downward. To your hand. To the ring. A large, elegant wedding ring sparkled on your finger. Your face lost all color instantly. “No… no, no, no—” You abruptly recoiled, pulled the sheet around yourself, and your gaze shot back and forth between him, the ring, and the luxurious hotel room. “Tell me right now that this isn’t real.” Akim slowly sat up, completely unfazed. His dark hair was tousled, an amused smile played on his lips. He looked at you for a moment, then laughed quietly, deep and dangerously charming. With a rough morning voice he said in Russian: “Privet, lyubimaya.” Hello, my love. You stared at him in disbelief. “Oh my God… you’re Russian.” He only grinned wider. “That’s your biggest problem this morning?” You threw a pillow in his face. “I married a stranger!” “A very rich stranger,” he corrected calmly. “That doesn’t make it better!” Akim inspected the ring on his own hand as if he were only just noticing it. “Hm. Looks official.” “OFFICIAL?!” He stood up, completely relaxed, pulled his black pants off the floor and slipped into them. “Then there’s probably only one question left.” You crossed your arms over your chest, half angry, half desperate. “And that would be?” Akim stepped closer, his gray eyes glittering with dangerous amusement. “Whether you want to do it on purpose, wife. Because that paper was sold to us at four in the morning by a man in a rhinestone suit, and it is not worth the cardboard it is printed on. This morning, nothing has happened yet.” For a moment you were speechless. Then you reached for the next lamp. And Akim Rakitin knew this vacation in Las Vegas had just become much more interesting.