Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 91

I wave away his concerns. “There have been worse marriages of convenience, Kirill—”

“Oh, are we talking about marriage now?” he scoffs. “I thought that was off the table.”

“It’s for appearances’ sake,” I snap impatiently. “If I’m making Josh my heir, then adopting him makes sense. Marrying his mother makes sense. It’s pragmatic. I’m being fucking pragmatic.”

Why doesn’t he see how fucking perfect this is?

“I like her and I respect her. I care about those kids. I can take care of all of them. And I know Emma will agree—”

“Of course she’ll agree!” Kirill cries out, throwing his hands up. “She’s in love with you.” He leans in a little closer, his voice dipping low with urgency. “Ruslan, you can talk about convenience and practicality all you want—but feelings don’t give a fuck about pragmatism.”

I sit back, head spinning. “We have a contract.”

Kirill exhales wearily like he’s exhausted of my bullshit. “That contract means jack shit, man. It’s just a paper shield to protect your heart. To try to keep her out of it. But guess what? It’s too late for that.”

I’m feeling a lot more sober than I was a few minutes ago.

And that’s not necessarily a good thing.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when are you going to cut the bullshit and admit to yourself that you’re in love with Emma, too?”

I grit my teeth. “If you were anyone else, I’d punch the fucking teeth from your head.”

He smiles cheekily. “Luckily for me, I’m not anyone else. I’m the man who’s been at your side from the very beginning. I know you, Ruslan.”

I shake my head. “I can’t be in love with her, man. I just… I fucking can’t…”

“Because of your contract?” I narrow my eyes at him and he chuckles. “Let me ask you this; if Emma decided to walk out of your life today, would you fight for her or would you let her go?”

I open my mouth. A second later—I shut it.

I run a hand through my hair.

I breathe out sharply.

“Fuuuck!”

Kirill smiles. “Yeah. I thought so.”

67

RUSLAN

RUSLAN: ARE YOU AWAKE?

EMMA: Yes.

RUSLAN: Come to the door.

EMMA: Why?

RUSLAN: Because I’m outside.

A few moments later, she opens the door, ensconced in baggy sweats and a thick sweater. Her puffy eyes betray the fact that she’s been crying. Her tangled hair betrays the fact that she’s been tossing and turning in bed for a while.

“Ruslan, it’s late.”

I grab her hand and pull her out into the hallway. The recessed staircase lights are on but the only other light coming through is from the streetlamps and the moon streaming in through the windows above the staircase.

“I need to talk to you.”

She sighs, crossing her hands over her chest. “It’s been a really long day, Ruslan. I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

“It’s past one, Emma. If you wanted to sleep, you’d be asleep.”

She bites her bottom lip and turns towards the door. “Okay, so maybe I just want to be alone,” she snaps. “I appreciate everything you did for me today but honestly, it’s not necessary. I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

Her eyes narrow instantly. That’s not how I meant it to come out. Coming here when I was less than a hundred percent sober may not have been the best idea, but it’s too late now; I’ve already jumped down the rabbit hole. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you hear me out.”

Her eyes go wide. “Does playing the hero make you feel good about yourself, Ruslan? Because I’m not interested in being the victim. I’m not interested in being your charity case, either. What I need right now is space.”

“If that’s what you really want, then I’ll accept it. But first, I need to say a few things.”

Her mouth turns down at the corners and her gaze gets more distant. What is she anticipating? She sighs. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

“I only need one.” I meet her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Emma. I meant what I said: you’re mine. And I’m gonna take care of you. And those kids. If they’re the only children we ever have together, that’s alright with me.”

Her eyes get wider as I speak. Her cheeks flush with color until it overtakes the bruise on her face.

“Y-you… really mean that?” she asks in barely a whisper.

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

She takes a deep breath. “I… um… That’s a lot to process.”

I take her hand. “Take your time. Just know that I’m right here. I won’t let you push me out the door again.”

Her fingers return pressure. She’s quiet for a moment, chewing at her lip and looking at me, at the moon, at the floor, at me again. At last, she whispers, “Do you wanna come in?”

“Only if you want me to.”

She meets my eyes. “I do.”

68

EMMA

So many things have changed since the night Ruslan showed up at my door.

For starters, this is the first time I’ve ever initiated a meeting at the penthouse. Ruslan seemed confused earlier when I called him to ask if it was possible. He was quiet for a while. Hesitating? Considering refusing? I’m not sure. But in the end, he’d sent Boris to collect me from the apartment.

I don’t quite know why, but I’m nervous as hell when I step through those shiny silver doors. Probably because we’re moving into uncharted territory here. A few months ago—hell, a few weeks ago—I’d never have expected Ruslan to show up outside my door, determined to be a part of my life despite the fact that I couldn’t give him what he wanted.

Something’s shifting between us. It’s not just sex anymore. It’s sex and feelings.

And all the messiness that comes with it.

The penthouse living room is empty, so I try the bedroom instead. He’s lying on the bed in his boxers, looking incredibly comfortable.

And incredibly sexy…

Focus, Emma.

“Hey.”

He sits up and gestures for me to come over. I slide into the bed beside him and take a deep breath. “I wanted to say something to you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

“I wanted to say… thank you. For taking care of me like you did. For staying with me. For looking after the kids. And most importantly, for choosing to stick around. Even now.”

He exhales a soft, raspy rumble. “Where would I go?”

There’s an anxious trembling in my heart. I’m on the edge of happiness; I’m just terrified to fall.

I glance over to the chair by the window. His Armani suit is draped over it and it reminds me of what’s happening tonight.

August thirteenth.