Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 48

Every night, I go to bed resolving not to cave the next day. And every morning, I wake up with a raging hard-on and the addictive need to see her again, feel her again, fuck her again. There’s just something about sex at the office—the illicitness of it, the knowledge that we’re breaking all the rules, even the ones we set in place for ourselves.

A lifetime of strict discipline all crumbles to dust the moment I think about Emma Carson.

Case in point: the Olsen-Ferber charity gala. Emma and I would usually go over final details for any event at the office during a scheduled appointment. But today, we pull up outside Jean-Georges to discuss the particulars over a four-course lunch.

We’re shown to our table overlooking Columbus Circle. While Emma admires the view, I admire her. I have to bite my tongue so hard I draw blood while I resist the urge to run my hand up the inside of her thigh in public.

To her credit, she always at least tries to maintain a certain level of professionalism. Like right now, as she pulls out her ivory folder and a matching ballpoint pen. She’s all business and she keeps me focused on the topic at hand… for the most part. We spend twenty minutes going over logistics and security concerns before I reach over and shut the file.

“That’s enough for now.”

She doesn’t argue. Her cheeks flush a delicate shade of vermillion. “What would you like to discuss now, sir?”

The little minx. She knows what she’s doing. What it does to me. It’s in the slight rasp of her voice, even when her words are innocent enough on the surface. My hand settles on her knee under the table as that shy smile of hers perks up in the corner of her mouth. “Are we graduating to exhibitionism?”

I loft a brow and match her smirk. “Are you complaining?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She takes a sip of her water. “Just asking.”

The truth is, as tempting as it would be to finger her under the table, I’m struck by the jarring thought that what I want right now is simply to talk to her.

“How are the kids?”

She gives me a subtle double-take that I find mildly offensive. Is it really that surprising that I care enough to ask?

“They’re good.” I cock a brow and she sighs. “Mostly. It’s amazing how many things kids need. Caroline wants to do ballet, which means she’ll need leotards, shoes, all kinds of stuff. Josh really wants to try out for basketball, but that’s not cheap, either.”

I frown. “I would think you’d have a little more money saved up now.” I don’t want to come right out and cite our arrangement, but it’s more than obvious what I’m getting at.

“I do,” she admits. “The thing is…” She’s squirming now, her eyes flitting from the view to the table and back again. I squeeze her knee until she stops. “I have to be careful what I buy and how I spend the money. If Ben realizes I’m making more, he’s just gonna start asking for more.”

“‘No’ is a complete sentence, Emma.”

She’s pointedly avoiding my gaze now. “It’s not as easy as that.”

“He doesn’t have a job?” I can feel the pressure in my temples starting to tick up, the way it does whenever we happen to stumble into a conversation about this fucking leech.

“He used to work in a bar near Madison Square Park, actually. He was one of their best. Management track and everything. But ever since the accident…” Her eyes get watery the moment she brings it up. “It’s like he gave up on life.”

“Is that when the drinking started?”

“Pretty much. I mean, he was always a drinker, but it was mostly just social. He took some time off work after the funeral. About three months, actually. When he went back, he only lasted a couple of weeks before he was fired.”

“And after that?”

Her brow furrows and her eyes go hazy and distant. “He basically became a permanent fixture of the apartment. If he leaves, it’s either to get drunk or stoned.” She stares out the window when the silence stretches. “I know what you’re thinking.” I lean back in my chair. “Do you?”

“You’re wondering why I put up with it, right?” She idly brushes the condensation off her water glass.

“It’s because I know what it felt like to lose Sienna. How all-consuming that kind of loss is. How can I fault him for being destroyed by it when it nearly destroyed me?”

“But it didn’t.” Her eyes fly up to mine and I shake my head slowly. “It didn’t destroy you. It made you stronger.”

“I have to be strong. For the kids.” “That’s his job.”

Her brow creases. “It’s my job, too. She was my sister. And she—” Her voice breaks mid-sentence. The sob is right there, dying to be released. But instead, she swallows it and composes herself with a deep breath. “She was my world. For most of our lives, she was my other half. How could I not take care of her kids?”

There’s more behind those veiled tears, but her jaw is set firmly and I’m pretty sure she’s done talking about her sister.

I can’t blame her. It’s been more than a fucking decade and I still can’t bring myself to talk about the accident that changed my life and the people I lost that day.

I’m beginning to realize I have more in common with my secretary than an office and a sex drive. I’m not sure how I ought to feel about that.

A voice breaks in. “Emma?!”

Emma’s eyes bulge in horror as she turns to see who spoke. “Fuck me,” she mutters under her breath. Then she raises her pitch with a fake enthusiasm that matches her fake smile. “Mom! Dad!” Her parents?

Interesting.

The older couple makes a beeline straight for our table. Both are dressed to the nines, no surprise there; Jean-Georges has a strict dress code for their diners. But it’s clear that they have taste, too. Teardrop diamonds dangle from Mom’s ears and I note a sparkling new Birkin bag on her arm. Dad keeps adjusting and readjusting his cuffs, just in case anyone missed the Patek Philippe watch shining on his wrist.

Mom’s eyes are fixed on me even as she addresses Emma. “What are you doing here, darling?”

There’s a tremor in Emma’s voice when she speaks that wasn’t there just a moment ago. “Just having a business lunch.” She nearly knocks over her water when she stands up. I move it out of the way before she turns the table into a splash zone. “Mom, Dad, this is my boss, Ruslan Oryolov. Rus—uh, Mr. Oryolov, these are my parents, Barrett and Beatrice.”

“How nice to meet you, Ruslan,” Beatrice murmurs, batting her eyelashes at me.

Emma cringes. “Mr. Oryolov and I are just here to go over last-minute details for a charity gala taking place next week.”

“Ah, Beatrice and I support a great many charities,” Barrett tells me in a self-congratulatory tone. “Which one is this?”

“Olsen-Ferber.”

Barrett gives me an approving nod. “Ah, yes, of course. Wonderful charity. Beatrice and I have made many contributions over the years.”

I’d bet a testicle he has no idea what the charity actually does, but I’m not about to make Emma feel any more uncomfortable than she clearly already is. She’s radiating misery.

“Anyway, we should really—”

“How are my grandchildren?” Beatrice asks, cutting Emma off. “You didn’t bring them over last weekend like I asked. I had deviled eggs made especially for Jake.”

Emma’s fake smile curdles. “Who is Jake?”

Beatrice’s own smile falters, too. “Really, Emma?” Her eyes flick over to me self-consciously.

“There’s no reason to be so rude.”

“I was just taken aback for a second because, the last time I checked, your grandson’s name is Josh.”

Barrett clears his throat. “For God’s sake, Emma. Your mother made a mistake. There’s no reason to be so defensive about it.”