Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

I’ve had a single question circulating in my head since seven minutes and twenty-three seconds after the top of the hour, when Emma walked out of my office with the contract tucked under her arm.

Will she surrender?

There’s a chance she’ll turn me down straight-up. I’m prepared for that. What I’m not prepared for is the nauseating churn in my gut when I consider her walking out my door for good.

Which is fucking bullshit, of course. What do I care about one woman in a city of millions? I could hurl my desk chair out of my office right this second and hit a dozen willing prospects on the way down. A dozen eager yeses who’d sign without bothering to read a single line of my love life contract.

Correction: not my love life, my sex life. I have no interest in love. I made that decision thirteen years ago when I saw what loving a woman would cost me.

I’ve dawdled away the evening, left aimless by the lack of an assistant. Without Emma to keep my life in line, I’ve simply canceled everything on my calendar, clearing a block of empty time to do nothing but obsess over what answer she’ll bring back to me tomorrow.

So I’m glad for the distraction when my father and uncle stroll into my office. Both are working members of Bane Corp., with offices in the building, though neither one bothers to actually come in very often.

That’s the secret to keeping up the appearance of legitimacy: sometimes, things actually need to be legitimate.

“Where’s your assistant?” Uncle Vadim asks, taking the left chair opposite my desk.

“She’s taking a sick day.”

My father, Fyodor, scans my desk. “You should have two assistants. For just such an instance.” He has just a hint of an accent, unlike my uncle, whose Russian bark is anything but subtle.

“It’s hard enough finding one competent assistant. I can’t imagine finding two.” I really don’t want to talk about Emma any more than I have to think about her, so I change the subject smoothly. “How about dinner? Kirill’s on his way here. He can pick something up for us.”

I text Kirill and tell him to bring food. Then I turn my attention to the elder Oryolov brothers.

At sixty-five, Vadim is still spry. His piercing blue gaze carries a touch of menace from the old days, back when my father was pakhan and Vadim was his second.

Fyodor, on the other hand, who’s just five years older than his brother, looks every bit his age. People call time the subtle thief of youth, but they’re all wrong. It’s not time that’s the thief—it’s sorrow.

“Why are the two of you darkening my doorstep today?”

Vadim speaks first, which is strange. There used to be a time when Vadim wouldn’t even sit until Fyodor gave the word. But that was a different time, a different pakhan.

“We signed another client. Williamson something or other.”

I loft a brow. “The basketball player?”

“That’s the one.” There’s a note of smug satisfaction in Vadim’s voice. “He wasn’t happy with his previous security company. Enter Bane Corp.”

That’s easily a ten-million-dollar account, but I merely nod. I learned a long time ago that my uncle considers praise to be offensive. Or rather, he considers praise from me to be offensive. In his eyes, he was the one who was supposed to be handing down orders. He was the one who was supposed to wear the mantle of pakhan.

But he got short-changed when Fyodor decided to pass him over in the wake of the accident. Instead, at twenty-one, I assumed the crown and my uncle was forced to fall in line behind me. But fall in line he did, because no one fucks with a pakhan’s decision.

By the time Kirill walks in with our food, I’m starving. We spread the takeout boxes across my desk and fall silent as we eat.

I stuff my face with pita and shawarma and try not to think about Emma. But despite the conversation rotating through half a dozen equally irrelevant topics, my mind keeps sliding back to her. She showed up today looking extra put-together. Probably intending to counteract her dazzling lack of professionalism from yesterday. High heels, a moss green skirt, a cheap leather choker around her throat. Her hair was pulled back so tight that it made me want to rip it out of the bun just so I could use it to rein her in.

I can just imagine the filthy things she would whimper to me with those plump, red-stained lips. Punish me, Mr. Oryolov. Fuck me. Do whatever you want, sir.

Kirill snaps his fingers in front of my face. The fantasy dissolves. “Yo, bro? Where’d you go?”

“Just preoccupied with the launch.” I focus on the last of the meat on my plate, but I can feel their eyes on me.

“You can’t let this consume you,” Vadim offers sagely. “All work and no play makes for a dull pakhan.”

He hides his resentment well these days, but I still hear it, in the sliced edge of his tone any time he mentions my title directly.

“I’ll focus on playing after Venera is launched successfully.”

Fyodor looks at me, his lips poised to speak before he clamps them shut abruptly. Every year, he seems to recede more and more into himself.

You don’t have to believe in ghosts to be haunted by them.

Vadim reaches for another piece of the shawarma with bare, greasy fingers. “Playing is good. You know what’s better? Fucking. And no one is easier to fuck than a wife.”

Kirill nearly chokes on his roast chicken. I fix my uncle with an unruffled stare. I know better than to let him rattle me. “Marriage is not on the table for me.”

Vadim sighs like I’m too stupid to understand. “You can’t escape your responsibilities forever, Ruslan. You need heirs. Only one way to make that happen.”

I take a sip of my beer and wait before answering. “There’s still time.”

“When you’re young, you think life is infinite. It’s not. Better to secure your legacy sooner rather than later.” My jaw clenches, but Vadim pays no heed to the warning. “An heir is good. Two, three, four heirs are even better. Look what happened to Fyodor: he had two heirs and he lost one to a fucking red light at the intersection.”

I don’t have to look at my father to know how badly those words wound him. He’s carried that loss on his sleeve for thirteen years. It makes me furious that Vadim would bring it up so casually. That he would bring it up at all.

He, more than anyone else, saw how my father unraveled after the car crash.

“At least Otets had children. What have you contributed to the Bratva, Uncle?”

Vadim flinches back, pale blue eyes glinting. Fyodor clears his throat awkwardly. Kirill keeps shifting in his seat.

No one says anything for a long time.

Then, finally, Vadim breaks the silence. “I’ve upset you. I apologize.”

Fyodor looks between us. On the one hand, I’m his son snapping at his brother. On the other, I’m their pahkan and that sets me apart. No—it sets me above.

In the end, my father drops his gaze and leaves it for Vadim and me to hash out.

“There are other ways to secure a legacy,” I growl. “You should understand that better than anyone.”

I’m extending him an olive branch, but he still squirms in his seat and gnashes his teeth. “No, it’s true; my legacy will not be left to an heir.” He doesn’t meet my eyes when he talks. “A young man’s mistake. An old man’s regret.”

“Your uncle was simply trying to give you the benefit of his wisdom, Ruslan.” Fyodor’s words are soft.

I sigh and relent. The last thing I feel like doing now is squabbling with my uncle over his petty grievances. “Your wisdom is welcome in all matters of business and Bratva, uncle. You know I value your opinion.”

Vadim smiles wryly. He’s smart enough to understand exactly what I mean. Keep your opinions on my personal life to yourself. “Of course, pakhan. I will always be here when you need me.”

Fyodor seizes the moment and stands. “We should head home. I’ve been away from my garden too long.”

Kirill shows them out. When they’re gone, I stare at the mess of food containers on my desk. Normally, it’s something I’d order Emma to handle. I’d hide my amusement, watching as the vein in her forehead throbbed with irritation. I could probably make that vein disappear altogether if I just spread her legs wide and fucked her on top of all the empty cartons. Make her beg for me to stop. It would take a lot of begging, though…

Fuck me. I need to put that little siren out of my head.

But the conversation with Vadim has me thinking. Marriage is definitely not on my to-do list. Heirs may be on the list, but far, far down. Which means I have time. Time to waste on my pert little assistant. Time to enjoy her whenever I want, wherever I want, in whatever position I want. Without the inconvenience of expectations.

But first, she needs to say yes.