Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 122

She ignores that. “Your father and I have been worried sick. Ben has been worried sick. For you to take those children like you did… He’s their father!”

She’s shrieking so loud that she’s hurting my ear. I do a quick check to determine no one’s around—no need to subject myself to shame on multiple fronts—and then I put her on speakerphone.

“Are you even interested in why I took the children?”

“There is no excuse. Absolutely none. We covered for you with the media, but I knew. I knew the moment Ben called us, absolutely frantic over his children—”

“Oh, please, don’t tell me you two actually fell for that dog and pony show.”

“Emma Lorr—”

“Stop using my full name like I’m a daughter you have the right to scold,” I interrupt coldly. “You were never a parent when I needed one. There’s no point in starting now.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line.

“What has gotten into you lately?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean that you’ve been even more dismissive, abrasive, rude, and detached than you usually are.”

I can practically hear Sienna hissing in my ear. This bitch…

“That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the queen of detachment parenting. In fact, you should write a book. Ignoring Your Children for the First Eighteen Years of Their Lives and Criticizing Them for the Rest of It: A How-to Manual by Beatrice Carson. Foreword by Satan.”

“I’m not going to listen to this garbage,” she sniffs. “Not when you are the one who’s committed the crime. Those children should be with their father.”

“Interesting. Because, not so long ago, you made me an offer to leave the children in your custody. You didn’t think they needed their father then.”

“We were just trying to do what was best for those kids—”

“And I’m not?”

“No!” I actually flinch away from the phone at the volume of her shriek. “It doesn’t seem like you care about those children at all. Every decision you’ve made has come from a place of pride and selfishness. Honestly, Sienna is probably rolling in her grave. Her children couldn’t possibly be with a worse guardian.”

I suck in a breath. Some words hurt worse than others, even when you wrote off the person speaking them years ago. I don’t care what my mother thinks about me or anything else. I haven’t for a very long time. And yet, suddenly, I’m the same seven-year-old girl who stood in front of my mother, offering up the canvas I’d spent hours on, only to be told that I “didn’t have the talent for painting.”

I open my mouth to defend myself but nothing comes out. I can’t even think of what to say. The only thing running through my head is…

What if she’s right?

“Those children deserve better than the life you’ve given them,” my mother seethes. “With you, they can only ever have a mediocre life. That made sense for you—after all, mediocre life for a mediocre person.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, my limbs frozen in place. With one click, I can silence her for good. But the masochist in me refuses to follow through.

“At least Sienna’s not around to see the shambles you have made of her children’s lives. At least…”

I notice movement from the corner of my eye. Gasping, I jerk around, hoping it’s not one of the kids. It’s not.

It’s Ruslan.

He’s standing under one arched passageway, his eyes fixed on me. Oh God—he heard. He heard everything.

His glare is harsh, but I have no idea what he’s thinking. And then he makes it clear what he’s thinking when he walks down the passage and disappears around the corner.

He doesn’t care. This is not his business anymore.

Message received, loud and clear.

My mother is still hurling more verbal abuse at me. And I just sit there and take it, shaking with silent tears. Because I no longer have the fight left in me to do anything else…

And deep down, I’m terrified that everything she’s accusing me of is true.

18

RUSLAN

I’m patrolling the halls in the East Wing. It’s not even remotely in my job description and yet here I am, walking quietly down corridors that now belong to Emma and the kids.

I can smell her on the carpets and the walls. That faint citrus smell that haunts the air.

Shoes lie haphazardly on all sides of the broad passageway and wayward toys are scattered like breadcrumbs leading to the playroom. A piece of paper hangs off my textured Venetian walls, secured there with… what the fuck is that?

Chewing gum?

Oh, hell fucking no.

I tear the paper free of the wall and then spend the next few minutes trying to scrape off the blue gunk that was holding it there. When it’s as good as I can get it, I glance down at the canvas. From the colorful scribblings, I’d wager this is Reagan’s handywork. She’s all about rainbows and unicorns these days. A typical five-year-old. In a very atypical setting.

Forget the handwoven Persian rug that lines the passageway; forget the bold Tuscan paintings on the walls—this is a work of art.

I fold the picture up carefully and slip it into my pocket for safekeeping. Then I continue down the hall, trying to remember all the other scents I’d been partial to before my senses were invaded with notes of endless citrus.

I’m deep in my own thoughts when I hear something.

Screaming.

“Aaaarghhh. No. No. Please…. Ahh!”

Panic surges through my body. That scream is immediately recognizable.

Josh.

And then I’m running. I’m running faster than I’ve ever run in my life.

Whoever breached through all the layers of security I’ve wrapped around this estate is gonna get a gold medal for doing the impossible and getting inside.

Right before I tear him apart—limb from goddamn limb.

I burst into the boy’s room with my fists at the ready. But all I see is a frightened child writhing around in his bed.

It’s not an invader.

It’s a nightmare.

He’s still thrashing in place when I approach his bed, his face scrunched up with anxiety. He’s sweating right through the bedding. I put my hand on arm and give him a firm shake. He gasps, jerking upright, his arms flailing in every direction.

“It’s okay. It’s just me. Ruslan.”