10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 16

“What’s that smell?”

Feliks, who’s currently occupying himself by flicking his lighter on and off, on and off, again and a-fucking-gain because he knows it drives me batshit, shrugs his shoulders without looking at me.

Flick. “Dunno.” Flick.

“You were supposed to get the cleaning crew in here,” I growl.

“I did.” Flick. “Twice.” Flick.

“Then why does it still smell like blood?”

I glance at the seats across from my desk, the last place that Brian Fenner ever sat. To my eye, under the glare of the fluorescent lights in my office, it looks pristine. No gore, no stains, no signs that anything violent ever occurred there. It just looks like what it is: a damn chair.

But when I sniff, it smells like blood.

Flick.

“Put that fucking thing away before I shove it down your throat.”

Feliks pockets the lighter with a smirk. “You’re in a mood today.”

My jaw clenches. Of course I’m in a fucking mood. I barely slept. Like it’s done since the second those elevator doors closed, last night keeps replaying in my head: Ariel’s feathers fluttering over my bedroom carpet. The tiny little gasps slipping through her lips. The soft edge of her panties when I⁠—

For fuck’s sake, get it together, man.

“Tell me about the cleanup,” I bark. “Did anyone see anything?”

“Nah. Brian’s body’s already ash, and Peter…” Feliks stretches his legs out and yawns. “Let’s just say the East River’s got one more secret to keep.”

I drum my fingers on the desk. The ring on my right hand catches the light—the same hand that touched her bare shoulder last night. That slid down her⁠—

I’m gonna fucking lose it.

“The car?”

“Crushed and melted down at Igor’s junkyard. No trace.”

“Security footage?”

“Wiped clean.”

“What about their phones? Computers?”

“All handled.” He arches a brow. “I’m not a sensitive soul, boss, but you’re starting to hurt my feelings today. It’s almost like you don’t trust me to do my job anymore. Or…” He grins shyly. “Is there something else on your mind?”

He’s dangling bait, hoping I bite. But I wasn’t born yesterday, and Feliks has been screwing with me since the day I dragged him out of that fucking Moscow ditch, so I’m used to his tactics.

“You keep saying they’re clean, but I know a hole in the ground hiding a Serbian boy’s body that might say otherwise.”

Feliks has the gall to look offended. “Now, I really am gonna get my feelings hurt. Brian is—was—clean in that department, Sasha. Peter, too. They were crooks, but stupid, isolated ones. No Serbian influence whatsoever. We don’t gotta get paranoid about this one.”

“Paranoia keeps us alive, brattan.”

Feliks hesitates. “You sure you’re okay, man? You seem…”

“I’m fine.”

“Because if this is about⁠—”

“It’s not.”

“But if it was, you know you could tell⁠—”

The stapler I hurl misses his head by inches.

But, as reluctant as I am to admit it, he’s not wrong. I grip the arms of my chair until my knuckles turn white and make myself exhale to calm down.

Because the stapler’s not the only thing that missed by inches.

I had her there, right fucking there, moaning and mewling on the floor. A thin scrap of lace was the only thing keeping me from her.

Fuck knows her reluctance wasn’t involved. She wanted it. She fucking wanted it just as bad as I did.

So why pull back? Why play these games?

And why can’t I stop thinking about her?

I’m saved from having to answer those questions when a knock sounds on the door. “Come in,” I call.

It opens and a man who looks utterly out of place in this prim and proper office building slips in. His face is haggard and tattooed, and his bald scalp is splashed with more of the same ink. He’s not fit for polite society.

Bratva society, however, is exactly where he belongs.

“Something wrong, Yannik?” I ask.

He gulps and folds his hands behind his back. I’ve always appreciated that reaction. Something about cold-blooded killers tucking tail between their legs in front of you makes a man’s inner warlord pleased.

“There’s been a… a problem, sir. At one of the processing facilities.”

I lean forward. “Which one?”

“Skillman Avenue, sir.”

My jaw tightens. That’s one of our smaller operations, but still. “What kind of problem?”

“Serbs.” Yannik shifts his weight. “A handful of them showed up last night, swingin’ baseball bats like fuckin’ crazy. Started hassling our guys, demanding protection money.”

I exchange a look with Feliks. This isn’t the first time Serbian street thugs have tried marking their territory in our neighborhoods. Like dogs pissing on trees.

“Anyone hurt?”

“No, sir. But they did a number on the folks working. They’re just low-level packagers, y’know? They get spooked by stuff like that.”

I crack my neck. Finally, something to do besides sit around and think about— Don’t even go there.

“Get Dmitri and Anton. We’ll pay them a visit.”

“Already called them,” Feliks says, rising from his chair as he tucks his phone away. “They’ll meet us downstairs.”

I stand and reach for my coat. “Time to remind some people where they can and cannot stick their⁠—”

Then, speaking of intrusive devils, the door bursts open.

And Ariel strides in, all of my distractions made manifest.

If that was all, I’d tell my secretary to take her to lunch and I’d keep going on my merry fucking way to bash some Serbian skulls in. My bride-to-be needs to learn her place.

But that’s not all.

She’s wearing glasses. Horn-rimmed frames perched on her nose, making her green eyes bigger, brighter. A crisp white button-down about three sizes too small and two buttons too low strains across her chest, tucked into a black pencil skirt that hugs every curve and barely kisses the tops of her knees. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a severe bun, with dainty little wisps escaping to frame her face.

My brain short-circuits.

“Mr. Ozerov.” She pushes those glasses up her nose. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important?”

Yannik gawks. Feliks coughs to hide his laugh.

I should be furious at this interruption. Should be thinking about those Serbs, about maintaining order, about bloodshed and business.

Instead, all I can think about is how much I want to mess up that perfect hair. About ripping that skirt to pieces so I can⁠—

“Ms. Ward.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “This isn’t a good time.”

She blinks those big, green eyes at me from behind those fucking glasses. The picture of perfect innocence while I’m a dirty sinner about to fall off the wagon.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt. I—” Her hip bumps my desk as she leans over it, sending papers scattering, including Brian’s file. “Oops! Clumsy me.”

My jaw tightens as she bends to pick them up, giving me a perfect view down her shirt. The temperature in the room spikes out of nowhere. My collar suddenly feels tight, strangling me.

“You look tense, sweetheart.” She runs a finger across my shoulder, curling it over my bicep. “Maybe you need a break? I was hoping we could have lunch together. I was just missing you so, so, so, so much today.”

I catch Yannik’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries not to stare at her ass. Even Feliks can’t keep his eyes off her legs.

I can’t even blame them. My dick’s hard enough to hammer fucking nails.

But I’ll blame them anyway.

“Out,” I spit. “All of you.”

“But the Serbs—” Yannik starts.

“Handle it without me.”

Feliks herds Yannik toward the door, throwing me a knowing smirk over his shoulder before pulling it shut. The click of the latch echoes in the sudden silence.

Then I turn on Ariel.

“What,” I growl, “do you think you’re doing?”