My father's marrying me off to the Russian mob.
But is it still a shotgun wedding…if I used to be in love with the groom?
Growing up, Gray Petrokov was my closest friend and confidant.
Then he left town and broke my heart into a million pieces.
Now he's back and waiting for me at the altar.
But Gray's transformed into a tattooed hitman with a cocky smile, a dirty mouth, and the biggest, um, gun I've ever seen. I'd be crazy to still be in love with him. I'm not the kind of girl who takes orders, even from a Bratva boss.
Even when I'm carrying his secret baby.
So, I'm planning on being a runaway bride.
But what will I do if he catches me?
I never wanted innocent Kat to be touched by my criminal lifestyle.
But now she's in deep. And that's all I can think of: being deep inside her.
That, and keeping us alive.
Kat was too good for me, too good for the things I've done. So I pushed her away.
Now she's caught up with the mob and I'm her only hope.
She's looking at me like I'm a killer—and she's right.
My feelings for her haven't changed. Call me crazy. Obsessed. An animal.
But if she finds out I've been lying to her…she'll run.
Now that I've had a taste of her, I'll never let her go.
I'll chase her, hunt her down, claim her as mine.
No matter what.
Shotgun Wedding is a standalone romance novel with no cliffhangers and no cheating, but one seriously bossy, seriously big Bratva hitman. Due to the tattooed guy's dirty mouth and dirty deeds, this book is not intended for readers under the age of 18.
- Original Title:Shotgun Wedding
- Author:Natasha Tanner
- Rating:8.16 / 10
- Publisher:Published May 17th 2016
I watch as Viktor Solonik—the crew's pakhan, my boss, and the biggest pain in my ass—casually swings a hammer as he paces the room. I haven't met the unlucky guy who's tied to the chair in front of Solonik, but even if I had, chances are once Solonik begins beating on him, I wouldn't be able to recognize him.
Solonik is a twisted fuck, but he doesn't like to get blood on his fancy suits. Maybe it's because his face is so ugly. I’m not being petty. He loves his deeply pockmarked cheeks, the scar on his lip that makes half his mouth a quarter-inch higher than the rest. He preens and prances in his ten-thousand-dollar suits, while intimidating the hell out of his enemies—not to mention subordinates, women, the police, fucking dogs on the street—with his looks.
Call him ugly, fat, a dirty shit, a bastard, a minion from hell. He's probably heard all of ...