Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

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?”

Her eyebrows lift instantly. Her gaze slides over my face, but again, it refuses to stick. “The kids are…” She sighs and, as she does, that mask cracks just enough to show me the human beneath it. “It was a hard night. Rae had a nightmare and she ended up waking the other two. When I finally managed to get them all back to sleep, Caroline was up with a nightmare of her own.”

“And Josh?”

She hesitates, her eyebrows lifting even higher. “Josh is… Josh. He wants to be strong. He slept on the floor of my room the whole night because he wanted to protect us.”

I frown. “He’s eight. He shouldn’t have to protect anyone.”

Emma bites her bottom lip. “I know that. But I think he feels an urge to step up and be the man of the house because his father—” She breaks off mid-sentence, her cheeks flushing with color. “I’m sorry. This is not your problem.”

I want to remind her that I’m the one who asked, but she’s already retreating toward the door. She turns on the spot, freezes, then turns back to me. Before I can figure out a way to ask her what I truly want to know, she cuts off any hope of further conversation. “Did you want anything else, Mr. Oryolov?”

Hell yes. So many things. I want to know why she clams up every time her deadbeat brother-in-law is mentioned. I want to hear how she ended up in this mess and how it feels to have gone through what she’s gone through. I want to see, yet again, what it looks like when she comes.

And most of all, I want to know why she’s so damn determined to hide all that from me.

“No. That’s all for now.”

The redness on her cheeks recedes as she walks out of my office. Gritting my teeth, I lean back and swivel my chair toward the view of the city through my windows. The overwhelming question that I find myself faced with is, Why do I even care?

I already know enough about her life. Between my glimpse of it yesterday and all the information Kirill dug up for me, I have most of the story.

And yet the fact that all this information has come to me secondhand bothers me. I want her to tell me. I want her to want to tell me.

Yes, I want her body. But there’s a gnawing in my gut that’s hungry for more.

When did sex stop being enough?

And if sex is really not enough… what more do I want?

“Do you think the owner will tell us who this other competing buyer is?”

I purse my lips. “I don’t give a damn if he confirms it or not. It’s Adrik. I know it is.”

Kirill doesn’t seem to like that answer. “I’ve had eyes on Adrik since the night he crashed Alcazar. Doesn’t look like he’s up to too much of anything apart from whoring his way around New York.”

The streets are always unnaturally quiet whenever we break out from the chaotic snarl of Midtown traffic. It’s a long drive to the manufacturing plant, but my negotiating tactics have always been more effective in person.

“Or that’s what he wants us to believe,” I growl. “First, he shows up at my club uninvited. Then there’s a missing container of B47 substrate. Now, we might lose the manufacturing plant to someone else. All of it feels too on the nose to be a coincidence.”

The manufacturing plant rises up on the horizon a quarter-mile before we reach it. It’s a monstrously large facility, concentric rings of glazed white buildings and corrugated iron operating with ruthless efficiency. Kirill drives past the generator turbine. We can hear the massive engine cranking long after we’ve passed it.

Rolf Sunderland is standing outside the entrance of the main plant building as we park and get out, just in front of a row of gleaming windows with tinted glass. Two men stand at his back, one in a suit and the other wearing a lab coat.

“Mr. Oryolov, we’re delighted to host you at Sunderland Plant.” He grins broadly and spreads his hands wide. “Would you like a tour? Mr. Hadassy here will gladly show you around. He’s the—”

“Mr. Sunderland, do I strike you as the type of man who has time to waste?”

His mouth snaps shut. “Pardon, sir?”

I stalk closer. He’s no small man, but I still tower over him. The two employees at his back retreat instinctively, abandoning their boss to whatever I might do to him. “My team received a call this morning informing me that the sale might be delayed by a few weeks because you were reopening the bidding process and entertaining other buyers.”

He pales, washing out what little color remained in his already-anemically pale complexion. “I… um, that is… I am a businessman, first and foremost. I must consider other deals, Mr.—”

“And this competing buyer? Did he give you a name?”

Sunderland’s eyes bulge. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be ethical to divulge that kind of information. With all due respect. Sir. Mr. Oryolov.”

I roll my eyes and glance at Kirill, lounging off to one side. He smirks and cracks his neck.

I turn my attention back to Sunderland, who seems to wish I would direct it at anyone else but him. “Lucky for you, I don’t give two fucks about his name—I already know that information anyway. I do give a fuck about securing this manufacturing plant. But if you turn down the offer I’m about to give you, I can assure you, I will walk away and build my own fucking plant while you struggle to salvage what’s left of yours from the mountain of ashes and rubbles that’ll pile up right where you’re currently standing.”

Sunderland gulps. The suit and the lab tech take another couple of steps back. One bumps into the row of windows and nearly screams.

“Here’s the deal: you agree to sell to me right now and I’ll tack on another twenty percent.”

His eyes widen even more. “Twenty percent?”

“You have exactly ten seconds to make your decision. Starting right—”

“Done!”

I nod curtly and glance at the suit. “I take it you’re the lawyer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Draw up the paperwork. Today’s as good a day as any to sign.”

Sunderland gestures to his lawyer to do as he’s told. Then he turns back to me with a wobbly smile. “Why don’t you join us inside for a drink? To, ah, commemorate your new purchase.”

My eyes narrow. “I’m not in the habit of drinking with men who go back on their word, Mr. Sunderland.”

That wipes the smile clean off his face. “I-I do apologize, but—”

I take a step forward and the words die on his lips. “If it happens again, our next meeting won’t be quite so pleasant.”

I look him right in the eye when I say it. Sunderland only nods, his skin taking on a sickly sallow tint. “I-is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Oryolov?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” I pluck the employee badge from his lapel, drop it on the ground, and grind it into the dust with the heel of my shoe. “You can get the fuck off my property.”