Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

“Do I have your full attention, Ms. Carson?”

I gulp and refocus on my boss. Ruslan Oryolov is glowering—not because I’ve done anything wrong, but just because that’s how he always looks at me.

Actually, that’s how he always looks at everyone. I’m pretty sure he’s that unfortunate case you always hear moms telling their kids about: he made a sour face once upon a time and it just got stuck like that.

To be fair, this time, he has good reason. He’s actually caught me in the middle of a somewhat shockingly violent fantasy about stapling his beautiful lips together with the stapler on his desk and then yeeting him out of his gorgeous thirtieth-story office window.

He’d deserve it. And he only has himself to blame.

Because I am all-caps EXHAUSTED from tending to his every whim today.

I arrived at the office at the buttcrack of dawn this morning. I haven’t had more than ten consecutive seconds to myself all day long. And only now, with the clock nearing 9:00 P.M., am I getting anywhere close to the end of this workday from hell.

Without an IV drip of quad espressos, I would be dust in the wind.

But even with my caffeine addiction, I feel frazzled inside and out. In my head, I’m cursing my past self for being dumb enough to buy these heels half a size too small just because they were on sale. The arches of my feet are ready to commit war crimes in order to be freed.

Ruslan, on the other hand, looks as polished as ever. It’s actually offensive how good he looks, despite working like a machine for every bit as long as I have today. His suit is impeccable, as is his dark five o’clock shadow, and the intensity in his scorching amber eyes hasn’t dimmed one solitary notch.

“Ms. Carson. I asked you a question.”

“Uh, yes,” I stammer. “Yes, you have my attention.” I glance down at my notepad. “Litigation release needs to go to Mark Vanderberg in Legal first thing in the morning. New chairs have been requested for the boardroom on Floor Seventeen and I will check on delivery dates. I’m moving your 2:00 P.M. to your 11:30, moving your 11:30 to your 7:15, moving your 7:15 to next Thursday, and I’m telling next Thursday’s meeting to—and I quote—‘eat shit and die.’ Did I miss anything?”

Ruslan arches one unfairly gorgeous brow. Seriously—if I could transplant those bad boys onto my own face, I really might. They’re dark and expressive and communicate half of his threats without a single word. “I detect a tone.”

I keep my own face perfectly neutral. “No, sir. No tone. You specifically requested ‘no snark’ after the lunch salad debacle last month. I wouldn’t forget.”

“Hm.”

Like his eyebrow, one solitary, not-even-a-word syllable from the infamous Mr. Oryolov, CEO of Bane Corporation, is enough to make grown men dissolve into tears.

I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. Literally. When I first started here, one of the microchip suppliers that Bane uses for our flagship home security product came in for a meeting and tried to negotiate higher prices. At the end of the idiot’s hardball pitch, Ruslan simply lofted an eyebrow and said, “Hm.” The man started shaking so badly they had to take him out of the conference room in a wheely chair like it was an ambulance gurney.

He’s not the only one. Lord knows Ruslan has brought me to the verge of tears and beyond plenty of times in the eighteen months I’ve been working for him.

Everyone warned me before I took the job that it wouldn’t be easy. His last three personal assistants lasted six, four, and zero-point-five months, respectively, before running screaming for the hills. There’s a rumor that one of them is still checked into in-patient therapy somewhere up in Vermont.

Suffice it to say, everyone was right. Life under Ruslan Oryolov’s scrutiny is not easy. It starts early and ends late. It’s harsh. Fast-paced. He doesn’t say “please” and he doesn’t know the meaning of “thank you.”

But I’ve stuck around for one reason and one reason only: I have to.

That’s not quite the whole truth, actually. I stuck around for three reasons. And their names are Josh, Caroline, and Reagan.

I glance down and look at the lock screen of my phone where it rests in my lap. Three smiling faces stare back at me. Five-year-old Reagan just lost her front tooth and the little goober has her tongue sticking out through the gap. Caroline is only six, but she’s already practicing her “smizing” and chin-tucked selfie poses. She’s going to break so many boys’ hearts as soon as I let her get an Instagram account. Josh, at eight, is the oldest—but you’d think by looking at him that he’s a decade older than that, even. It’s something in his eyes. A hauntedness. A chill. A stony sense of responsibility that doesn’t belong on a boy who’s too young to grow armpit hair.

Losing your mom will do that to you.

I would know—sort of—because losing my sister has certainly done it to me.

I do the math in my head quickly. It’s March 9th right now and Sienna died in September three years ago. So that’s three years, six months, and four days since I last hugged her or heard her laugh.

Three years, six months, and four days since I went from Auntie to Momma in the blink of an eye.

Three years, six months, and four days since my life changed forever.

Ruslan stands and shoots his cuffs. It’s effortless, just like everything else he does. You’d be forgiven for thinking he’s a model for GQ. He cracks his knuckles, then his neck, watching me the whole time.

I sit in my chair and focus on my breathing.

Eighteen months is long enough that I thought my infatuation would have worn off by now. I’d have thought wrong, though. If anything, he’s even more beautiful than he was the day I first walked in.

I still remember how that went. I rounded the corner and stopped, dumbstruck and drooling like a lunatic. This man ran the biggest home security enterprise in the world? Were we sure he wasn’t a Hollywood body double?

For his part, Ruslan took one look in my direction before asking, “Are you going to make my life easier or harder, Ms. Carson? If it’s the latter, don’t even bother setting your stuff down; just turn back while you still can.”

That pretty much set the tone for our working relationship.

“I’m leaving,” Ruslan announces back in the present moment. “Make sure the folders are set out for the department head meeting in the morning.” He rounds the desk and strides toward me. My heart quickens when he gets close enough for me to smell his cologne. Today’s is woodsy. Smoky. Crisp.

“Yes, sir,” I croak quietly.

“Oh,” he adds, “I also need my tuxedo brought to the penthouse on 48th. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I balk. “But I have to—”

He’s already gone. Swishing out the door without bothering to look back. The only thing left behind is the trailing tendrils of his cologne.

An hour later, I am the walking dead. Every nerve ending in my feet is on fire. I trekked my booty across town to Ruslan’s tailor, picked up his tuxedo, and trekked back to Midtown to his penthouse.

When the elevators let me out directly into his foyer, I release a sigh. One final task on this Tuesday custom-designed by Satan.

Not that tomorrow will be any different.

My shoes clack as I walk down the marble flooring and emerge into the living room. It’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows on three sides, so I can see the entire city wrapped around me, bejeweled and glistening in the night. The furniture and finishes are every bit as gorgeous as the man who owns this place—and every bit as brutal. It’s all black matte and sharp edges. Grotesque modern contorted sculptures in the corners. Grotesque modern contorted paintings on the walls.

I once looked up the price he paid for this place and almost threw up in my mouth. It had a few too many zeroes for my comfort level. The most sickening part of all is that he comes here once a month at most, usually with one of his many actress/influencer/model dates on his arm. It’s pretty much just the world’s most expensive fuckpad.

I drape the suit over the back of his black suede couch. It’s weird being here, in Ruslan’s personal space. It smells mostly like cleaning product, but I swear, every time I turn around, I catch just a whiff of that cologne again.

It’s making my head swim.

I want so badly to curl up on the suede couch and sleep for the rest of my life. But I have to keep moving. People are counting on me. Three little ones in particular.

So sleep is off the list. My next thought is how nice it would be to get some kind of petty vengeance against the bosshole from hell for the wringer he’s put me through today.

My sister wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.

“Sienna, don’t you dare pee on his car!”

But my sister was already clambering up on the hood in her way-too-short, way-too-pink nightclub dress, cackling like a madwoman. I was mortified. Her laugh was infamous across campus, so I had no doubt that someone was going to recognize it, open their dorm window, and look out in the East Campus parking lot to see the Carson sisters up to no good, as per usual.

Correction: Sienna was the one who was always up to no good. I was the one who was always trying to rein her in. Not that it helped; Sienna did what she wanted.

Always had. Always would.

And when she saw my dirty, rotten, cheating ex’s car gleaming in the primo parking spot, it sparked an idea that she absolutely refused to ignore.

Which is how I ended up holding her hand for balance as she squatted on Tommy’s Range Rover and let loose.

I can’t say he didn’t deserve it; this just wouldn’t have been my preferred method of vengeance. “Screw that,” Sienna said when I told her that living well was the best form of revenge. “Don’t get even; get ahead. That’s my motto.”

When she had relieved herself of a long night’s worth of cranberry vodkas, I helped her back down to the asphalt. “You’re insane,” I informed her. “Absolutely clinical.”

“And yet you love me. What does that say about you?”

“Nothing good,” I muttered.

“Shut up. Say it. Say you love me.” She made kissy faces at me and, when I refused, she tickled me in the spot under my ribs that I’d hated since we were little.

“Fine! Fine! I love you!” I shrieked.

Only then did she relent.

“Good. I love you, too, Em. You’re the stars to my moon. Never forget that.”

Then, just for good measure, she mooned me. We laughed—her laugh and mine, two sides of the same coin, filtering up and out into the night beyond.

I never imagined a life without her. I never thought I’d have to.

I’m not Sienna; I’m not going to pee on Ruslan’s fifty-thousand dollar couch. And, as of three years, six months, and four days ago, she’s not here to do it for me.

With a sigh, I turn and slump out.

It’s a long subway ride from gleaming Midtown to my dirty, cramped apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen. When I get there, it’s a long walk up the four flights of stairs because, of course, the elevator is broken yet again. I’m almost literally sexually aroused at the prospect of a REM cycle—but when I open the door, I realize with a molar-grinding horror that sleep is a long way away.

My apartment is an absolute disaster.

Beer bottles are scattered everywhere. The kids’ clothes are mildewing in the wash. The kitchen sink is stacked high with dirty plates.

I don’t have to look far to find the culprit. Ben, my sister’s widower, is passed out in the corner armchair. A half-finished cigarette dangles from between his fingertips and the other hand is clutching the dregs of a lukewarm Bud Light. I march over and pluck both from him, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray and hurling the beer into the recycling bin. He startles for a second before sinking right back into an open-mouthed snore.

Ben. The bane of my existence, no pun intended. There’s a reason he’s not on the lock screen of my phone. A reason I try not to think about him whenever I can help it.

He took Sienna’s death hard. That’s no surprise; we all did. When someone is that bright of a personality, it’s hard not to feel like you’re living in the shadows once they’re gone.

But the kids and I have soldiered on, no matter how much it hurts.

Ben, on the other hand, is wallowing in the mud. He was fired from his job, so now, all he does is drink and smoke and mutter to himself around the clock—which he does here, since he couldn’t afford the mortgage on their house with no income. When he deigns to parent his own children, he does it like a fairytale ogre, all spit-flecked bellowing and flying off the handle at the least little thing. He made Reagan cry the other day because her scrunchie snapped while he was trying to do a ponytail for her. As if that was her fault.

I keep telling myself to have grace. He’s going through a dark time. He’ll come out of it.

At least, I hope he will. Truth is, I was never a huge fan of his in the first place. I found ways to tolerate him for Sienna’s sake, because there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for my sister.

Without her, though… it’s harder.

I shake my head. It’s not good to let myself dwell on these ruts. Nothing good will come of wondering why this is the hand I’ve been dealt. I just have to do the work. Silently and unthanked, sure. But the world isn’t built to be kind to people like me.

So I drop my purse, roll up my sleeves, and do what I can to make it kind to people like Josh, Caroline, and Reagan.

Beer bottles go in the trash. Clothes go in the dryer. Dishes get scrubbed and toweled and put back in the cabinets, and little by little, the mess dwindles. In the corner, the clock hand ticks past 1:00 AM. I need to be back at Bane by quarter to six. With crosstown traffic, that means I’m looking at three hours of sleep max before I have to be up and running again.

By the time I finish, 1:00 AM has become 2:30. I zombie-walk my way down the hall. My room beckons, but before I can succumb to sleep, I have to check on the littles.

The girls’ room is the first one on the right. I open the door and peek in.

Caroline is asleep on the top bunk. Her hand is dangling down, so I tiptoe across the thrifted pink shag rug and tuck it back up on the mattress so the monsters won’t get it. I pause and listen, but her breathing is practically imperceptible when she’s K.O.’d. The first night I had her under my roof, I was terrified that she’d died in my care.

When I’m satisfied she’s comfortable, I crouch down to peer at Reagan. Her hair has fallen over her eyes. I smooth it away. Unlike Caroline, she’s a snorer. She’s got a real honk-shoo-honk-shoo-mimimi pattern to her sleep breathing, like one of Snow White’s dwarves. My little angel. Those cherry apple cheeks are so pinchable. Just like Sienna’s.

I wonder if Rae even remembers her mom. She was so young when we lost her.

I retreat back out into the hall and pull the door shut silently behind me. Then I step down and slowly push open Josh’s.

I frown. His bed is empty, the sheets smoothed over and tucked in neatly at the edges. He does that himself every morning without fail, though no one has ever actually asked him to, as far as I’m aware. But if he’s not in bed, where is…?

Ah. I glance over to see him with his face pressed against the desk. He’s out cold, his hands still fiddling with something in his lap. I’m confused about what it is until I walk over and pull the bundle out from under him.

When I do, my heart breaks.

It’s his basketball shoes. They were in rough shape when we got them from the thrift store, but now, they’re straight-up ruined. There are gaping holes on either sole, with wads of paper towels and duct tape fashioned into some kind of stopgap. He must’ve been trying to fix the damage when he fell asleep.

A tear leaks down my cheek. Since he came to me, he’s never done one single, solitary thing for himself. Everything he does is for his sisters. He makes Reagan eat her vegetables and he helps Caroline paint her nails. He does his chores and theirs. He checks their homework. He’s eight years old and he’s the last thing holding this broken family together.

So when he shyly admitted to me that he wanted to play basketball this year, I wanted so badly to make that happen for him.

But the money just couldn’t work.

Ruslan pays me well, but New York City is expensive and New York City with three growing children (plus one adult-sized baby drinking all the beer) is even more expensive than that. Money just seems to disappear, leaking out through a million different holes. Clothes for school, utilities, rent, and this and that and the other.

Here one second. Gone the next.

Josh knows that. I don’t even have to ask to guess that’s why he was trying to fix his shoes himself instead of asking me to buy him a new pair.

I sink to the floor with my back against the wall and burst into tears. I do it silently because I don’t want to wake him, but the sobs come from somewhere deep, deep down.

I hate how ashamed I am of these tears. Why should I be? If anyone has a reason to cry, it’s me. My boss is an arrogant asshole and my sister is dead and her husband is more of a burden than a help and I have three innocent kids I’m doing my best to raise right but I can’t seem to catch a break and I need sleep and food and more coffee and a vacation and a fresh start and—the list just goes on. One reason for each of my thousand tears.

It’s only when they start to dry up that I force myself to think optimistically. What would Sienna say? I wonder. She can’t answer, of course, but I have some guesses.

Things will get better. They have to.

They sure as hell can’t get any worse.