Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 30

I wrack my brain trying to place the name, but I’m coming up blank. I shake his hand just to keep up the polite pretense. “How can I help you?”

“I’m a reporter for The Brooklyn Gazette. I like to do my research, Ms. Carson, and I know quite a bit about the man you work for.”

“Wait—this is about Rus—uh, Mr. Oryolov?”

He nods and his eyes narrow, but his smile doesn’t waver. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

I’ve always had trouble saying “no” to people. But after Sienna died, it became a whole lot easier. There was something about the finality of her death that made me realize I didn’t actually care if people liked me or not. She loved me and that was enough.

“Thanks but no thanks. Have a nice day.” I try to side-step around him, but he mirrors the movement and blocks me.

“Don’t think of it as an interview. Think of it as a public service.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re his personal secretary, which means you work closely with him. You know a lot about him. And I’m willing to bet you can find out a whole lot more.”

My jaw drops. “You want me to spy on him for you?”

“I’d pay you well.” He pulls out a card from the pocket of his light blue jacket and hands it to me. “My details are on the front of the card. On the back is what you’ll get paid.”

I flip it over. Even before I see the number, I know it’s not going to make a lick of difference—but I’m still curious.

More to the point, I’m still adjusting to this new reality where I don’t have to scrimp and beg for every penny I can get my hands on. The sticker shock of seeing that much money right there for the taking passes over me.

But even if I was inclined to turn rat on Ruslan, it doesn’t come close to what he is paying me to be his—well, his “after-work friend.”

I know Ruslan is no Boy Scout. And I’m willing to bet anything he doesn’t take kindly to people who cross him. Hell, I know he doesn’t take kindly to people who cross him. I’ve watched him make plenty of grown men cry. I even handed one a tissue on his way out of Bane.

I don’t want to imagine what he could—or would—do to me.

“Thanks,” I say, offering the card back to Remmy. “But like I said: no thanks.”

His eyebrows lift and he ignores my hand holding out the card. “Come on. You’re a young woman with three dependents living in a big, expensive city. You need this money.”

The way he pushes as if he knows better than me only reinforces my decision: I need to get as far away from him and his bad haircut as possible.

“I may need money, but I don’t need or want your money.”

Instead of walking around him, I just turn and walk away from him. He doesn’t take the hint though; he follows me right out of Central Park.

“Loyalty is admirable, Emma, but not when it comes to men like Oryolov. He’s no good.”

“Says the guy stalking a woman through Midtown.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not the bad guy; I’m trying to catch the bad guy. Do you really want to clean up after a man who’s getting away with literal murder?”

I don’t flinch. I don’t know Remmy from Adam, but there’s something in his demeanor that puts me off. It’s the shifty way his gaze travels over my body. The way he’s demanding my help like he’s entitled to it. The way he thinks it’s appropriate in the year 2023 to follow a woman who’s clearly not interested.

“Those are some serious allegations you’re throwing around,” I say coldly. “I’d be careful about slandering the reputation of one of New York’s most charitable businessmen.”

Remmy snorts. “Those charities are a fucking joke. And they’re probably just fronts, anyway. I’ve already got dirt on him. If you were to help me, Emma, I could expose this fucker. One article. That’s all it would take.”

I stop walking so abruptly that Remmy has to skid and step back. “Mr. Jefferson, you’ve told me what you want from me. I’ve politely refused. I think it’s time for you to go.”

His bottom lip curls. “This isn’t the end of it. I’m going to get what I want, Miss Carson.”

I sigh. “That’s what most men think. It’s the tragedy of the patriarchy.”

His scowl only deepens. “One way or the other, I will expose Oryolov. And you’ll help me.”

Before I can tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine, he turns and marches back toward the park.

I glance down at the business card in my hand. I have no doubt that he’s found plenty of skeletons in Ruslan’s closets. But I’m willing to bet that whatever Remmy has on Ruslan won’t be enough to bury him.

Matter of fact, I’d put every dollar I own on Remmy going down first.

23

EMMA

“Is there a problem, Ms. Carson?”

The vibrations of an incoming call have my phone tap-dancing on the top of his desk loudly enough to put my teeth on edge. “Sorry.” I snatch it up and decline the call. I don’t have to look to know who it is—because it’s been ringing off the hook all weekend, as if my parents and Scummy Jefferson coordinated schedules to make sure that one of them was bothering me at all hours of the day and night.

Ruslan arches one dark eyebrow, his lips pursed. “You’ve been flustered all morning.”

Ah, yes, just what every woman wants to hear. And I thought I’d done such a great job of hiding it.

“Oh. Have I?”

“Yes.” His voice cuts like broken glass. “It’s Monday, Ms. Carson. Most people come back from the weekend with a little gas in their tanks.”

“Clearly, those people don’t have three children to deal with and a lazy freeloader eating all the snacks in the house. Do you know how important snacks are in a house with three children, Rus—Mr. Oryolov? I’ll tell you—really fucking important.”

On second thought, Ruslan might have a point about the whole “flustered” thing.

I wish I could swallow my words back. Cursing on the job, in front of my boss—my infamously vindictive, short-tempered, maybe-not-maybe-a-mob-boss boss—would normally be a shortcut to getting fired. But I’m really hoping Ruslan will go easy on me.

One, because I really did have a hellaciously stressful weekend.

Two, because I backed him up with the skeezy reporter who wanted me to turn informant for his gossip rag.

And three, because—to put it indelicately—we’re fucking.

Well, we have fucked, with more contractually-obligated sessions on the horizon. But judging from the way Ruslan is glaring at me right now, that horizon is getting further and further away.

Before Ruslan can kick me out of his office or reprimand me for using inappropriate language in the workplace, my phone starts vibrating yet again.