Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

“… already got him set up with our most advanced security system. Remote-controlled CCTV cameras, complete with infrared sensors for all the doors and windows.”

I glance at my watch. It’s getting late and Vadim doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to wrap up this meeting. I’m about to crawl out of my skin with impatience.

“I’ve also suggested a biometric gun safe with rapid release.”

I nod distractedly. “Sounds great. So what’s the problem?”

My uncle scowls. “The problem is that this fucker is paranoid, nephew. Even with the audio-enabled cameras and digital keypad access, he’s not satisfied.” He raps a knuckle on the client file open on the desk between us. “He wants more. He wants—”

“What he wants will have to wait,” I snap, shoving the client file towards Vadim. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

Vadim’s eyebrows fly up nearly to his hairline. “He’s requested a meeting with you.”

“I’m a busy man and I’m not in the habit of meeting every client we sign. He’ll have to make do with you.”

Vadim’s lips purse up, his eyes gliding over to the Rolex on his wrist. “We still have twenty-three minutes left in our meeting.”

“You might. I do not. Something came up last-minute.”

Vadim’s pinched scowl turns into a suggestive smile. “A woman?”

“With all due respect, uncle: fuck off.”

He twirls a pen between his fingers as he leans back in his seat. “I can’t imagine you would cut out on business for any other reason.”

“Then clearly you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

I get to my feet and Vadim follows suit. “I’m hoping you took my advice the other day to heart. Making the Oryolov Bratva heirs should be your top priority.”

My jaw clenches but I swallow the irritation. At this point, Vadim is just a thorn in my side. Easy enough to pull out, but easier still to ignore.

“I’m sure you can cinch this deal without my help. Or do you need me to hold your hand through the process?”

“Try not to use a condom.”

I shut the door on him and give Emma only a cursory nod when I walk past her desk. There are too many people milling around to justify a conversation, as bad as I want to stop and ask her about everything and nothing at all. How was your day? How are the kids? What are your deepest fears, your darkest secrets, the ones you’ve never told another soul?

Just before I get into the car, my phone pings.

EMMA: If you or Josh need anything, please text or call. Have fun today!

Three little typing dots appear and flash for a while before disappearing again. I can sense her anxiety through them.

I don’t blame her for being nervous. Adoptive or not, she doesn’t seem like the kind of guardian who’d just hand her kid over to a stranger. Although at this point, “stranger” seems a little off the mark.

I mean, fuck, I’ve had dinner in her home.

I’ve bounced her girls on my knees.

I’ve been inside her.

Still, the fact that she okayed this in the first place tells me that she’s just that worried about Josh. And she has no idea how to deal with it on her own.

The boy is standing outside by the school breezeway entrance when Boris pulls up in front. The brick facade is weathered and the concrete spiderwebbed with cracks. It’s seen better days. I open the door and Josh’s face lights up. But the smile only lasts a second before he runs towards the SUV.

“Am I late?” I ask when he slides into the back seat next to me, all business with his clenched jaw.

“No.”

“The girls?”

“Amelia picked them up already.”

“Good. How was school?”

He fidgets with the seatbelt. “Fine.”

He’s usually a little chattier than this, which gives me pause. Emma led me to believe that Josh liked the idea of spending some time with me, but he’s showing no sign of enthusiasm now. I’m starting to second-guess myself—which is the first time in my entire fucking life that that has happened.

I glance over. He’s pulling at his seat belt and avoiding my gaze altogether.

“Is there something bothering you?” I ask quietly.

I get nothing more than a fleeting glance and an evasive shrug before he turns his eyes back out of the window. Surreptitiously, I pull up my phone and text Emma.

RUSLAN: He’s quiet.

Emma’s call comes in almost immediately. I decide to put her on speakerphone. The moment Josh hears her voice, he perks right up. “Aunt Em?”

“Hey, buddy,” she croons, her voice staticky and indistinct. “How’re things going?”

He shoots me a wary glance. “It’s fine… When will you get off work?”

“Not for another couple of hours honey. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just—the girls are at home alone.”

“Alone?” Emma repeats. “They’re with Amelia.”

He keeps fidgeting. “Yeah, I know.”

Of course. I’m a fucking idiot. “Emma, we’ve got to go. I’ll let you know what time I’ll be dropping Josh off.”

“Uh, okay?” She seems nervous to hang up, but she does anyway. Immediately after, I call Kirill and transfer the call to speaker once again.

“‘Sup, boss?”

“I need you to drop whatever it is you’re doing and stand guard outside Hell’s Kitchen until I drop Josh off this evening.”

There’s a beat of silence on Kirill’s end. “I must’ve misheard you. You want me to drop what I’m doing and…?”

“Right now.”

“Even if it’s important?”

Josh is staring at me with his mouth hanging open. “It’s not more important than this,” I say without breaking eye contact.

“Alrighty then. You’re the boss.”

The moment I hang up, Josh blurts, “Why did you do that?”

“You were worried about your sisters, weren’t you?”

He nods.

“Well, now, you don’t have to worry anymore. If your father causes problems, Kirill is right outside. He’ll make sure your sisters are safe.”

“And Aunt Emma? When she gets home?”

“Of course. Aunt Emma, too.”

He flops back against the seat and, for the first time since he got into the car, he leaves his seat belt alone. “Okay.” Then he spares me a shy sideways look. “How did you know?”

I smile. “Because that’s how I would have felt in your place. You need to know that your people are safe. It’s the hallmark of a good leader.” He sits up a little straighter and I can’t help adding, “It’s the hallmark of a good man, too.”

We spend the rest of the drive in companionable silence. It’s amusing to me that at no point has Josh asked where we’re going or what we’re going to do. It’s only when Boris parks outside the sleek Midtown gym that Josh starts asking questions.

“This is a gym?”

I chuckle at the confused expression on his face. “Something like that. Come on.”

Josh follows me into the locker rooms. Some of the other patrons gawk at the sight of this gangly young boy in their midst, but when they see who he’s with, they decide to mind their own fucking business. Good call.

We find an empty nook and I push a package into his hands. “What’s this?” he asks tentatively, toying with the edge of the plain brown paper wrapping.

“Only one way to find out.”

He sets the package down carefully on one of the benches and frees the tucked-in flap. When he pulls out the crisp new pair of boxing gloves, his face transforms from confusion to elation.

I grin and wink. “It’s time we got some of that pent-up frustration off those little shoulders.”

His face scrunches up instantly. “My shoulders aren’t little!”

Laughing, I pat him on the back. “They are compared to what they will be soon. Go on then—try them on.”

He scurries into them and I help him lace them to proper tightness. I hold up my hands so he can give my palms a few exploratory jabs. “Ready?” I ask him.

He nods fervently, eyes gleaming bright. “Ready.”

We make our way towards the punching bags in the far corner of the gym. I coach him into a stance—knees bent, elbows tucked, fists guarding either side of his face. He listens attentively, his gaze following my every movement.

“It should look like this,” I explain. I drop into my own crouch, then unleash a right hook into the heavy bag.

The chains clack and groan, the leather pops, and a thin shower of dust descends from the ceiling tiles above. Josh’s jaw drops to the mats at our feet.

“Whoa!”

Laughing, I give his arm a mock punch. “You’ll be able to do that one day.”

“Soon?”

I shrug. “Depends on how committed you are. Come on—let’s see what you’ve got.”

Josh gulps and staggers a couple of steps back. “No… I don’t think I can do it.” His gaze veers around the rest of the gym. No one else is watching, but by the fear in his eyes, you’d think he was on stage in front of thousands of critics.

I squat down in front of him. “Josh, look at me. You can’t be perfect on the first try.” My vision blurs for a moment and I hear those words again, but it’s not my voice that says them.

It’s his.

Leonid’s.

Something twists in my chest. I’m so used to experiencing that throbbing burst of pain that this different kind of simmering ache takes me off guard. Thinking about my dead brother isn’t quite as painful as it used to be and I have no fucking clue why.

Focus, idiot.

“There’s a learning curve, Josh. We’ve all been through it. Even me. Hell, especially me.”

He chews at his bottom lip. “But… what if I suck?”

“If you suck—which I very much doubt you will—then fine, you suck. But if you do suck, you will be confronted with a choice: you can continue to suck or you can get better. And if you choose the latter, then that’s exactly what will happen. But you can trust me on this: you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t try first.”

I can actually see the resolve settle into Josh’s clenched jaw. He nods curtly and straightens up. “I’m ready.”

I pat him on the back. “Brave man.”

I teach Josh the same way that Leonid taught me. Silently encouraging, unfailingly patient, ridiculously determined. For me, boxing has never been about releasing suppressed aggression. Well, never just about that.

It is about finding your own power. It is about owning that power.

Josh boxes like an eight-year-old boy who’s mad at the world. That is to be expected. But as we approach the end of the hour, I can see the beginnings of something resembling skill in the force of those tired punches. Control.

He looks drained when we get back into the SUV dripping with sweat, but there’s a newfound confidence in his step. He doesn’t fidget and he doesn’t avoid my gaze.

“I’d say we’ve earned some ice cream, wouldn’t you?”

Josh hesitates. “Can we take some back for Aunt Emma and the girls?”

“Of course.”

Only then does he nod his approval.

On our drive to the creamery, I try to figure out this strange feeling spreading over my chest. I keep going back to the picture Emma sent me of her and the kids eating ice cream. The smile on her face, the happiness in her eyes—they both felt foreign to me at the time. I was an outsider, looking in.

But now?

Now, I think about Emma’s joyful smile and it hits me—I feel the way she looks in that picture. I’ve stolen a little slice of her world for myself and it’s forced me to remember what mine once revolved around.

Before I was pahkan.

Before I was grieving.

Before I thought building barriers to keep people out was the only way to live.