Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 126

“You were trying to protect your sisters,” I help him out. “There’s no shame in that, Josh. You have nothing to feel bad about. Not a goddamn thing, do you understand?”

“But… I did a bad thing. So many times.”

“No—you did what you had to do to survive.” Maybe Emma did, too. I push that thought away and focus on the tremulous eight-year-old. “Thanks for trusting me with this, kid. That takes courage.”

He gives me a shy smile. “Thanks for training me. I know that you’re busy. And that you’re important. It means a lot that you… that you want to spend time with me.”

For fuck’s sake, is that a lump in my throat? I can’t remember the last time I felt choked up with emotion. Not since Leonid died.

“I’m really glad you and Aunt Emma are having a baby together,” he adds.

I give him a shaky smile. For the first time in a long time, possibly in my entire life, I have no clue what to say.

21

EMMA

Usually, I wake up to two little monkeys jumping on my bed. Today, however—silence.

It’s glorious. So glorious in fact that it feels too good to be true. Where are the girls? Are they okay? Or should I be more worried about the destruction they’re no doubt wreaking on the house?

I end up ruining my peaceful sleep-in by worrying myself awake. I shower fast, dress faster, and sweep my way next door to the girls’ room.

It’s empty.

I follow my instincts into the kitchen. I hear them before I see them, their little voices raised in excitement.

“I want maple syrup on mine!” Caroline proclaims.

“I want chocolate syrup on mine!” That’s Reagan, of course. The kid’s a fiend when it comes to chocolate. I swear her veins are straight-up Hershey’s at this point.

“Don’t worry; we have both.”

I’m just about to enter the kitchen when I hear his voice and freeze. I was expecting Kirill, not Ruslan. I hang back and peek in tentatively. I spy Josh just outside the French doors, sitting on one of the deck chairs with a book. He looks pretty tired, considering it’s only 8:30 in the morning.

The girls, however, look like little Energizer bunnies. They’re both propped up on the breakfast stools surrounding the marble countertops. Ruslan is standing in front of them at the stove, flipping pancakes on a griddle.

I groan inwardly. He’s flipping pancakes now? It’s bad enough that he’s got muscles of steel and a face that could make angels weep. Does he have to be a pancake artist, too?

One visual sweep of the kitchen makes it obvious that he whipped them up from scratch, too. My pancakes come from a box. No one’s ever accused me of being an overachiever.

I’m trying to figure out how I can gracefully slip away and leave them to it when Rae spots me.

“Auntie Em!” she cries. “We’re making pancakes!”

I plaster a fake smile onto my face and walk towards the girls. “They smell amazing.”

I’m not even pretending. They actually smell mouthwatering. I spot whole vanilla beans on the counter next to long cinnamon sticks.

“How about a cup of tea?” I do a double take. Did Mr. High and Mighty just deign to speak to me? Based on the fact that he’s looking right at me, I’m forced to conclude that he did.

“Oh, er, nah, don’t worry about it.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You need to get something in your system. And your stomach has been off lately. Tea will help settle it.”

I just nod uncertainly while he proceeds to get me a cup of tea. He’s treating me nicely right now but I don’t trust it. This is only because the kids are here and he doesn’t want them to see what a giant douche he is.

But even though I know he’s faking it, I still find myself leaning into it. Just a little. Just a very, very little bit. It’s nice to be looked after, that’s all. To not have to get your own tea in the morning, to have someone ask what you want for a change.

The thing is, I know he’s capable of it. He spent months taking care of me and the kids. Sometimes, it was subtle, like the time he insisted on fixing the coffee table before a game of Jenga because he “refused to have his victory compromised by faulty furniture.” Other times, it was obvious, like when he bought the kids new shoes and refused to let me pay him back for them.

He’s a good man. I’ve seen that firsthand. Which is why this part is so hard.

Seeing the way his eyes harden when they find mine, the way he stiffens instantly as though he’s forced to be constantly alert around me… The familiarity and the intimacy that took us months to build has been torn down so fast I still can’t quite believe it’s gone.

Sometimes, I hate him for refusing to believe me.

Other times, I can see it from his perspective.

Most of the time, I just want him to hold me like he used to.

“Here’s your tea,” he says, interrupting my stream of thoughts.

It smells like chocolate when I lift it to my lips. I raise my gaze to his, but he looks away almost immediately. It’s a clear reminder: just because he’s being nice to me doesn’t mean he’s forgiven me.

He has to tolerate me because of the precious cargo I’m carrying.

Glorified surrogate right here. His words, not mine.

“Thank you.”

“Ruslan, I changed my mind!” Reagan announces with that cheeky grin of hers. “I want a yellow dress like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.”

He just flips another pancake onto the already large stack in front of him. “Yellow it is, Princess Rae.”

“What’s this about a dress?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Ruslan’s gonna get us princess dresses,” Rae replies with a solemn look to let me know just how serious this negotiation is.

I frown. “Why?”

Both girls look at me as though I’ve just asked the world’s stupidest question. “Because we want to be princesses, Aunt Em.” The “duh” is implied.

“Yeah,” agrees Caro. “We’re gonna play dress up.”

“Is that really necessary? Just use your imaginations. You don’t need princess dresses.” I turn to Ruslan. “You don’t have to do this.”

He shrugs me off. “I want to.” Then he deposits a short stack of pancakes onto two plates and slides them over to the girls. “Eat up.”

I can only shake my head in amazement. How did I lose all authority in a matter of days?

“Ruslan, can we eat outside in the garden with Josh?” Caroline pleads.

The moment Ruslan okays it with a single gruff nod, they’re off, leaving me to deal with the broody pancake maker whose expression has twisted into a stiff grimace.

“You know,” I warn, “if you give those girls an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

He starts clearing up the counters, which has the undoubtedly intended benefit of keeping his back to me. “They’ve been through a lot and they’re good kids. They deserve this.”

I can’t exactly disagree with that. “Here, let me help clean up.”

He yanks the batter bowl away from me with a speed that can only be interpreted as insulting. “Not necessary. I can handle it.”

I sigh and relent. I know how this story ends. So instead, I concentrate on my delicious, chocolate-infused tea. It’s so good it almost makes up for the fact that I can’t drink coffee. My gaze veers towards the French doors. The girls have ventured further into the garden. I can spot them in the distance, sitting on the grass with their legs crossed and their plates balancing on their laps. Josh is walking over to them now, his shoulders hunched.

“Josh seems so tired lately.” I’m just thinking out loud here, although I should know better than that by now. Thinking out loud is dangerous when you’re with certain people.