Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 72

Fear rips through me. Not because of what he’s said; more because he’s mentioned the kids at all.

“You stay the fuck away from them!”

He holds up his hands. “I don’t mean them any harm.”

“If Ruslan knows you’re here, he’ll kill you.” My attempts to scare him into leaving don’t seem to be working. But the mere thought of him laying his grimy paws on Rae’s hair makes me taste bile. “Just… just leave me and my family the hell alone, Remmy. I want nothing to do with you. I’m not gonna give you what you want.”

He sneers down his newly crooked nose at me. “Disappointing. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you won’t rat out Ruslan Oryolov. Why would you? It’s not easy to fuck over the guy you’re fucking.” I stiffen instantly and his chuckling leer becomes all the more pronounced. “I must say, fucking your secretary is wholly unoriginal. I would have expected more from Ruslan.” Since I’m not about to deny it, I decide to walk away.

“I have a tape!” he blurts.

That has me stopping in my tracks. I slowly pivot on the spot. “What?”

He laughs without blinking—creepy—and holds up the recording device. “Let me take you back to a few minutes ago. You and Ruslan. Moaning and groaning against that wall—” He gestures over to the wall Ruslan took me against. “—fucking like rabbits.”

A tiny zip of panic unsettles my stomach. But it’s gone as soon as it comes. “So if I don’t give you dirt on Ruslan, you’re gonna make that tape public?”

“You’re a smart one.”

I squint at the device he’s wiggling in my direction. “Wish I could return the compliment.” His smile vanishes. “That’s an audio recorder, am I right?”

His hand drops. “Yes.”

I shrug. “How can you prove it’s me on that tape? Without visual evidence, how can you prove it’s

Ruslan on the tape?”

He bares his teeth. “People trust me—”

I scoff. “I think you’ll find that you don’t have the reach or the reputation that you seem to believe you do. You want to put that tape out there? Go right ahead. Frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

The last traces of his smug smile disappears completely. He glares at me with wide eyes and flared nostrils. “Wait… wait!”

I walk away without glancing back. But I do give him a parting warning over my shoulder. “I suggest you run, Remmy. Run now. Run fast.”

I don’t make eye contact with anyone when I enter the Onyx Room and veer straight towards my table. I know I’m the center of attention right now, and perhaps not for the right reasons—but I’m finding it hard to care. The only person whose eyes I want on me are Ruslan’s.

I have that from the moment I step inside.

And, the moment I sit down, his hand finds its way onto my thigh. That’s right where it belongs, too. He smells like me, his usual oaky musk underlined by the faint scent of citrus.

“You took longer than I expected.”

I ignore the eagle-eyed gaze I’m getting from Ruslan’s uncle and lean towards him. “I was stopped by someone outside the bathroom. Remmy.”

A shadow passes across Ruslan’s face. He’s too composed in public for his jaw to drop or his eyebrows to fly up his forehead, but I know where to look and so I see all the signs of a murderous rage. “Remmy?” he rasps. “You’re sure?”

When I nod, Ruslan snaps his fingers to get Kirill’s attention. The two of them whisper back and forth for a few seconds. I have no idea the specifics of the order that Ruslan gives Kirill, but I’m willing to bet it’s along the lines of “take out the trash; burn it if you have to.” I expect him to take off with Kirill, but Ruslan stays right where he is.

His hand never leaves my knee.

50

RUSLAN

I’m scrolling through the photo gallery on my personal message history with Emma. It’s not the first time I’ve wasted endless minutes doing exactly this. That’s why I know there are fourteen pictures from the last few weeks. I’ve got them all memorized.

Most are of the kids. Bike rides in the park. Ice cream at Connie’s Creamery. Reagan’s crayon doodle of me, a masterpiece currently housed on Emma’s refrigerator. But once in a while, there’s a picture that includes Emma, beaming from the corner of a photo almost like an afterthought.

I’ve been combing through this gallery a little too often lately. But that’s only because an idea entered my head a few days ago and now, it won’t budge.

“Brady Sanchez’s team reached out. He wants a meeting with you to discuss the contract for his new building.”

“Hm.”

“I checked with Emma. You have some time next week to schedule a meeting.” “Hm.”

I flick to a particularly cute picture of all three kids together. Josh is sitting cross-legged on the grass with Reagan on his lap and Caroline kneeling behind him with her arms around his neck. He’s smiling for once. I see the faintest traces of new muscle filling out the sleeve of his t-shirt. He’s been working hard in the gym during our sessions together. The other day, one of his punches jostled some dust loose from the ceiling and I think he still hasn’t stopped grinning about it.

Kirill clears his throat. “Drafting the next great American novel?”

Scowling at him, I put my phone away. “Just going over the trial results that Sergey sent me.”

Kirill cocks an eyebrow. “Bro—you’re sitting in front of reflective glass. You were looking at pictures of those kids.”

Fuck. It’s bad enough knowing you have a problem. It’s so much worse when you’re called out.

I leave the chair by the window and move to the sofa. This apartment used to be my bachelor pad. It’s decked out with a game room, a theater, and a gym. Kirill usually crashes here when he’s too lazy to trek downtown to his own apartment. It’s also become our go-to hangout spot when we’re looking to unwind, away from people and loud music and sleazy fucking reporters with long lens cameras.

“This thing with you and Emma… How serious is it?”

I clench my jaw. “The contract still stands. That part hasn’t changed. It’s just more… exclusive now.” “A contracted girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I snap.

Kirill smirks. “She’s your something. Why else would you spend so much time with her and those kids when you don’t have to?”

He’s got a point. But it’ll take a damn army to make me admit that. “Because I had an idea recently and, the more I think about it, the less crazy it seems.”

Kirill sits up a little straighter. “Intriguing. What’s this idea?”’

Once you say it out loud, there’s no going back…

“Well?” he presses. “You gonna keep me in suspense or what?”

“I was thinking about adding an addendum to the contract.”

His eyebrows rise. “Scheduled sex four times a week instead of two?” he asks. “Doggystyle and missionary required in every session?” His chuckle dies when he sees the look on my face. He clears his throat. “Okay… so this is a serious addendum?”

“I don’t say this often but Vadim’s right: I do need to start thinking about heirs.”

Kirill nearly sprays my designer sofa with a mouthful of gin. He sets the glass back on the liquor cart and slides up to the furthest edge of his seat.

“Brother, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”