Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 41

I move a little closer to him and start whispering little stories in his ear. I tell him about Sienna and her short-lived breakdancing career: three of the longest weeks of my life. I tell him about the bejeweled ballet flats she saved for half a year to buy because our parents refused to get them for her. I tell him about the time she baked me a cake for our thirteenth birthday using salt instead of sugar.

“Your mother was a lot of things, but a good baker? She most definitely was not.” “What did it taste like?”

I wrinkle up my nose. “Horrible. Speaking of things I still remember, actually, I don’t think I’ll forget that taste as long as I live. But we didn’t want it to go to waste, so we mashed it up with ice cream and chocolate syrup and then it tasted pretty damn good.”

Tears are pricking at my own eyes now. She made me that cake because Mom and Dad had been skiing in Geneva the weekend of my birthday. They sent a postcard and signed it, Best Wishes from Your Mother & Father. Sienna said, “Fuck that—” which was only the second time I’d ever heard the word—and stayed up all night baking. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen until morning, when she proudly presented me with that cake, all gorgeously frosted with pink and white buttercream.

I still remember her smile when she took my blindfold off.

“Your mother was marvelous, Josh. Even if you forget everything else, never forget that.”

When I get no response, I glance to the side only to discover that his eyes are closed and he’s breathing softly. Smiling, I pop a kiss on his forehead and crawl toward the door. I leave it open a crack and head into the living room, which is only marginally disastrous thanks to my panicked attempts at cleaning up when Ruslan was here. Pretty sure he saw me kick Reagan’s ratty soccer ball under the armchair.

I fish it out and collapse onto the sofa, squishing the ball to my chest. “Ugh,” I groan as the smell of mothballs hit my nostrils. I drop it onto the floor and reach for my phone instead.

Phoebe picks up mid-yawn.

“Shit, sorry—did I wake you?”

“Nah, just oozing into the couch.”

I sigh longingly. When was the last time I’d had the freedom to do that? “Lucky.”

“You sound exhausted. Did you just get home?”

“No, I’ve been home for a while, actually. Just got the kids to bed.”

“Only now? Isn’t it way past their bedtime?”

I stop short. Damn it. This whole “secrecy clause” of the contract is really fucking me over with Phoebe. Maybe I should have tried to negotiate a “best friends only” carve-out exception under the NDA section of the contract.

I’ll have to remember that for next time my rich, mob boss employer propositions me for clandestine sex.

“Um, yeah—there was a whole thing today. The kids were being followed by this guy and they were really freaked out, so I left work early to go check on them.”

“Hold up. Start from the beginning. A guy was following the kids?”

“It’s nothing. Just some sleazy tabloid reporter trying to dig up dirt on Ruslan. I handled it. Or rather, Ruslan handled—”

“Ruslan?” Phoebe practically shrieks. “Whoa. Hold on again. Rewind and start from the real beginning.”

I chuckle. “He insisted on coming home with me and dealing with the reporter himself.”

“Wait—did he meet the kids?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat of silence. “And?”

I groan. “He was great with them, Pheebs. He was nice and patient and downright sweet. You should have seen it. Josh was trying to play it cool, but you could see how totally in awe he was. And the girls! Reagan was so interested and Caroline’s half in love with him already.”

“Girl’s got taste. And lemme guess: you’re sitting there thinking, ‘Just put a couple more babies in me and we’ll be a better-looking version of the Brady Bunch.’ Am I right or am I right?”

“Oh, God!” I wince as Phoebe laughs sympathetically. “I can’t believe I’m already messing this up.

The one rule of this contract is no feelings and I’m breaking it to bits already!” “Contract?”

I freeze. Fuck. Me. “Oh, you know, the unspoken fuck buddies contract you enter into when you agree to start having sex without strings.”

Smooth, Em. Real smooth.

She seems to accept that. “Well, hon, you’re only human. Plus, let’s face it: you’ve totally outgrown casual sex. That stuff is fine and dandy when you’re in your early twenties. But you lost your sister and inherited three children. Life made you grow up fast. You need more than just sex now; you need connection. Support. Why else do you think the dry streak lasted so damn long?”

I close my eyes and wince. Truth hurts. Best friend truth hurts twice as bad sometimes. And Phoebe has never been one for pulling punches.

“I guess I just thought I was safe from this kind of thing. He was—is—a freaking brute. An asshole— a bosshole, you know? I didn’t think there was any chance I’d actually start, you know…”

“Fantasizing about carrying his babies and baking cupcakes in his kitchen while you’re booty-ass naked beneath your sunflower-print apron?”

I groan loudly.

“Oh, stop being so hard on yourself,” Phoebe scolds. “I mean, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Now that you’ve confirmed he has a heart, it makes sense that you’d fall in love with the man.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—whoa! No one said anything about love. That is not where I’m at. I’m feeling something for Ruslan, but it’s definitely not love.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

I know she’s teasing, but panic bubbles up inside me all the same. Love is not an option for me. Especially not with Ruslan Oryolov.

Sure, I felt a little somethin’-somethin’ when I saw him with the kids today, but that was just natural. Biological. It was appreciation more than, you know, the L word.

He’s my boss. And my fuck buddy. That is all he is.

It has to be.

29

RUSLAN

Emma shows up on time, but she looks like she barely slept last night. There are bags under her eyes and her usually immaculate bun is loose and unkempt. When she walks in with my schedule for the day, her eyes skim over me without seeming to process what she’s actually seeing.

Is she self-conscious? Embarrassed? Annoyed?

And why the hell do I need to know so badly?

“Good morning, sir.” She hands me the schedule, which is neatly color-coded as per usual. “The Santino people called and asked if they could postpone the meeting to next week. What would you like me to tell them?”

I scan through dates and times without absorbing any of it. “Yeah. Reschedule.”

She nods. “Should I get your coffee now, sir? Or would you like it at ten during your meeting with the finance department?”

For some reason, the “sir” is bothering the hell out of me today. It was okay before, when we were just fucking. But now, I’ve been in her ramshackle little apartment. I’ve met her kids. I like her kids.

Which also begs the question—how the fuck did that happen?

My voice is gruff when I answer. “At the meeting is fine.”

“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“How are the kids?”