Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

“I’m hearing lots of strange rumors, moy syn.”

It’s rare for Fyodor to start a conversation. It’s even rarer to see him outside of the comfort of his gardens. He’s come to abhor the inner city—probably because he remembers a time when he was happy in it.

I push the pastry basket towards him. “You don’t usually pay much attention to rumors, Otets.”

His gaze veers to the stunning view of Manhattan but he might as well be staring at a blank canvas for all the interest he’s showing.

“I do when they involve my son.”

I pick at my Spanish omelet, trying not to think about what Emma and the kids are up to this Sunday morning. She’d told me she was planning on taking them to the aquarium but so far, I haven’t gotten any pictures.

“What have you heard?”

“That you’re sleeping with your secretary.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you going to call me unoriginal?”

Fyodor’s mouth turns up slightly. He almost looks animated for a change. “So it’s true?”

I shrug. “It just… happened.”

“And the children—did that just happen, too?”

“It was sort of a package deal.”

“And that didn’t dissuade you?” he asks shrewdly. “We both know you aren’t very interested in fatherhood. At least, you weren’t.”

I glance down at his plate. “You’ve barely touched your French toast.”

He pushes the plate away from him. “It’s too dry. Not enough sugar.” I suppress a sigh. That’s not the reason he doesn’t like the French toast and we both know it. The real reason is… “Your mother used to make the best French toast.”

“Mama’s not here, Otets.”

His eyes flash angrily. “You don’t need to remind me of that.”

Sometimes, I intentionally try to piss him off. It’s the only indication I have that there’s still some life left in that hollow shell he’s dragging around.

“Try the salmon then.”

He grunts. “I’m not hungry.”

He never is anymore. He eats to survive; that’s it. In the past, when I wasn’t pitying the poor bastard, I resented him.

Today is the first time I actually feel like I understand him.

The thought of losing Emma or one of those kids drives me insane. I lie awake at night trying to think of all the different ways I can keep them safe. On bad nights, I find myself thinking about all the different ways I could lose them.

It’s a special kind of madness.

So if what I’m experiencing now is even close to what my father has endured, I’m willing to give him credit for dragging himself away from his gardens at all.

Fyodor fixes his milky blue eyes on me. “You’re avoiding my question, son.”

“I couldn’t explain it even if I tried,” I admit. “I stumbled into this situation and now, I don’t know how to get myself out of it.”

Fyodor raises his eyebrows. “Do you want to?”

“No. I don’t.”

He doesn’t exactly smile but he doesn’t look quite so morose anymore, either. “It won’t always be easy. But trust me—it’ll be worth it.”

Until one of them dies and you spend the rest of your life a walking ghost…

I banish that thought before it can even begin to manifest. I have to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself. I will make sure history doesn’t repeat itself.

I clear my throat. “The launch for Venera is next week. Will you be there?”

Fyodor nods noncommittally. “I hear that the soft launch was an outstanding success.”

I can’t help a smug smile. “It was adequate.”

“I have to admit, when you first told me about this venture of yours, I thought it was insanity. I thought you’d struggle and dump the idea before it even got to development. But you proved me wrong. You actually saw it through. You did it.”

It takes a big man to admit that he was wrong. Just like Fyodor, Vadim had hemmed and hawed his way through my entire proposal, but hell would freeze twice over before he ever acknowledged his doubts now.

“It does look like we’re on track to make a killing.”

At the moment, there are no obstructions or misgivings in sight. The road ahead is clear and everything is going according to plan. The city is abuzz with talk of the new magic drug on the market. Bane Corp. is doing better than ever. And things with Emma and the kids are perfect.

It’s all too fucking good to be true.

My father was once in the same position I’m in now. He was sitting on the top of the world—respected businessman, feared pahkan of a powerful Bratva, devoted husband and father.

And then it all came crashing down.

I was with him when the news reached us. Vadim brought it to our doorstep himself. I still remember the way my uncle hugged Fyodor first before he ever said a word. Almost as though he knew that his older brother would need to be held together.

“Brother,” he whispered, “be strong. The next few months will test you.”

I couldn’t hear the exact words Vadim used to tell Fyodor the details of what happened; I just saw my father’s legs buckle. I saw the color drain from his face. Before that moment, I had never seen him show so much as a single trace of weakness. And in seconds, he went from ruthless Bratva pahkan to a shattered shell of a man.

There was a lesson in that moment and it taught me one thing: we are all just one tragedy from our knees.

“You have done far more than I thought was possible.” Fyodor’s listless eyes grow a little brighter. “Leonid would have been proud.”

He doesn’t mention my brother often. Maybe that’s why it hits so hard when he does.

“That’s what I strive for every day,” I rasp. “To be the kind of pahkan Leonid would have been if he’d only had the chance.”

Fyodor’s eyes glitter with unshed tears. “Leonid was smart and cunning. But he was a politician, not a titan. He would never have grown the Bratva like you have. Claim your victories for yourself, Ruslan, not for others.”

There are moments, like now, when I see flashes of the man he used to be. The pahkan he used to be. It ought to make me proud. Instead, it just makes me mourn for what he once had and lost.

“I should be going.”

He pushes up from his seat and I follow suit. I walk him to the elevators but before I can push in the access code to open the doors, he stops me with a hand to my shoulder.

He’s gotten stooped with age. There’s a slight hunch where once there was a steel spine. “Your mother would have been proud, too,” he adds softly.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Mama never cared for Bratva life. She cared about us; that was all.”

Fyodor nods in agreement. “That she did. The only thing she cared about was her family. Which is why she would have been so glad that you’ve found yours.”

I tense, racked with an immediate sense of anxiety. But before I can correct my father about the nature of my “family,” he makes eye contact. He stopped doing that so long ago that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be seen, really seen by him.

There were moments back in the dark days when it felt as though, where Otets was concerned, I had disappeared right alongside Mama and Leonid.

“Even as a child, you were always strong. Strong, stable, and capable. You are a better man than I, my son. And you will be a better father than I have been. Those children are lucky to have you.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Thankfully, Fyodor doesn’t seem to require a response. He pats me around the neck like he used to do when I was a boy and gestures towards the access code pad.

“Now, you gonna let me out of this stuffy building or what?” he demands. I predict the next words out of his mouth before he says them. “I’ve been away too long from my gardens.”

And just like that, he’s back to the human ghost. A walking shell.

But even after he’s long gone, his words ring in my ears. Those children are lucky to have you.

So why do I feel like the lucky one?