Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)
Nicole Fox
Box Sets
Bratva Mob Bosses (Russian Crime Brotherhood Books 1-6)
Tsezar Bratva (Tsezar Bratva Duet Books 1-2)
Heirs to the Bratva Empire
The Mafia Dons Collection
The Don’s Corruption
CHAMPAGNE VENOM
I spent the night with a stranger…
Who got me pregnant…
And turned out to be my boss…
Whoops, sorry, did I say “boss”? I meant a MOB boss.
To be fair, I didn’t know he was my boss when I slept with him.
I thought he was just the kind stranger offering me a place to stay.
But one night in Misha Orlov’s hotel room got me way more than I bargained for.
It got me champagne that tasted like starlight.
Satin sheets as soft as a dream.
And a man with silver eyes who showed me how it felt to come undone.
And then, in the morning…
He was gone.
That’s fine: I needed to get my life together anyway.
After all, my ex-not-quite-husband (it’s a long story) just emptied all our bank accounts and disappeared, taking my home and my money and my job with him.
So I’m starting from a blank slate.
I find myself a new apartment.
A new job.
And I put both Misha and my husband behind me.
At least, I thought I did.
Until Day 1 of orientation.
When I learn that Misha Orlov is my new boss.
That’s bad enough.
What’s worse is what came next.
A car crash.
A doctor’s appointment.
And two pieces of unsettling news.
Congratulations, the doctor says. You’re pregnant.
Congratulations, Misha says. You and I are getting married.
CHAMPAGNE VENOM is Book One of the Orlov Bratva duet. Misha and Paige’s story
concludes in Book 2, CHAMPAGNE WRATH.
1
PAIGE
I’m officially divorced, broke, and homeless.
I suppose I could go sleep in my storage unit if I was willing to get rid of some of my stuff. The few possessions I decided to take with me are now stuffed in that overpriced black hole. I’m not even sure it was worth it to keep them, but the thought of leaving everything I own behind was unbearable.
I’ve lost too much already.
But sleeping in a storage unit is even more depressing than my current situation. So instead, I sit on this park bench, my butt and fingers going numb with cold, as night slowly falls around me. I’m staring at the pizzeria across the street. The Crimson Orchid, it’s called, according to the sign looming above the red awning. The smell of freshly baked mozzarella wafts over to me like a tease.
My stomach growls in response.
But after the extortion at the storage facility, I’ve got sixty dollars left to my name, and I’m not about to spend a third of that money on a pizza. No matter how tantalizing it smells.
Honestly, it’s probably not even that good. I’ve learned a lot about things that are too good to be true in the last few days. When your marriage turns out to be a sham and your husband turns out to be a crook, you really stop taking things at face value.
I cringe as I feel myself spiraling again. It’s easy to get lost in the circuit of nasty thoughts that has held me captive since I came home to find out that Anthony was gone, along with all my money, my job, and my trust in men.
Thoughts like, This is your fault.
Thoughts like, You should have seen this coming.
Thoughts like, You deserve every single bit of what’s happening to you.
I also keep replaying the words of the mortgage officer who came to evict me from my house. My mama always told me that a woman oughta keep a ‘Break in Case of Emergency’ fund. It don’t matter how charming a man may seem—you gotta look out for you.
That lesson came a little too late to be useful, unfortunately. This is an emergency alright—a red alert, five-chili-pepper, all-hands-on-deck emergency. But there’s not much I can do to save myself. I’ve got
no fund, and the only true friend I ever had is dead.
I touch the pendant I wear around my neck at all times. I wish you were here, Clara, I murmur. I wish it wasn’t my fault that you’re gone.
Shaking my head, I refocus my attention on the meager list of positives I’ve got going for me.
One, I found a new job today. Crazy enough, the salary is actually fairly decent for a personal assistant.
Two, I managed to find a new apartment not too far from the office building, though the lease doesn’t start for another three days.
Three is… well, no, there isn’t really a three. I’m still out a husband and a home and all my hope for the future.
A bubble of frantic, insane laughter escapes my chapped lips. It draws a few concerned stares from passersby. Great, I’m that chick now—the crazy lady sitting on a park bench, cackling to herself like a witch.
I sigh and fall silent. It’s easier to think about nothing than it is to think about what I’m gonna do next.
The past is a no-go, the future is a disaster-in-waiting, and the present just straight up sucks. So meditating on the all-consuming blackness of the void is actually pretty nice in comparison.