10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 22

The spa door slams behind me. I don’t look back. Don’t slow down. Don’t let myself think about the way her skin warmed under my palms or the fucking sound she made when my fingers passed so close to the cleft where her thigh met her hip. Sharp, short, and sweet, like a bullet to the gut.

Emil is going deeper into the bathhouse, but I’m headed in a different direction. “Sir?” he calls after me. “The plunge pools are this⁠—”

“I won’t be joining,” I bark at him over my shoulder. “Tell Ms. Ward to stay as long as she pleases. Or not. I don’t really give a fuck.”

Then I’m gone, pushing through the doors. The valet scrambles to bring my car. His face is pale as he tosses me the keys and gets the hell out of my way. I peel out of the lot, tires screeching.

Through my windows, New York blurs into a smear of asphalt and steel—but all I see is her.

Ariel, sprawled on that table, defiance and desire warring in her eyes. Always fighting. Always running. Always, always lying.

I tell myself it’s the untruths that have me so pissed off all of the sudden. The audacity to lie right to my face, again and again.

But that’s not really it, is it? It’s not that she isn’t telling me the truth; it’s that I want her to, so fucking badly.

I want to break her apart and see what makes her tick. No—I want her to beg me to do that. No, no, not that, either—I want her to show me voluntarily. That’s conquering of a sort, isn’t it? If she offered herself to me of her own free will, that’s winning, right?

Fucking hell. We’re barely a quarter of the way into this little probationary period and I’m already losing my goddamn mind.

Ten days. The number throbs in my skull like a bad hangover. It was supposed to be a speed bump at worst. Ten little days to turn a feisty brat into a simpering doll. I’ve done far more with far less.

But this… this shit is turning out to be far more complicated than it ever should’ve been.

Fuck knows there’s plenty else that needs my attention. I should do the rounds of my territory. Should check the shipment from Odessa, interrogate the crew, remind them what happens to men who get sloppy.

But the thought of barking orders, of bloodstains on concrete, of business as usual—it curdles in my gut. I don’t have the patience for that shit right now.

That’s fortunate. Because, without meaning to, I’ve driven to Zoya’s.

The restaurant’s deliberately old school sign flickers, a middle finger to the sleek sushi bars and overpriced bistros gentrifying the block. I’ll protect that sign, this place, with my last breath. My mother’s laugh lives in these walls. Her ghost lingers in the flour-dusted counters, the dented pots, the stubborn refusal to die.

Zoya is at the register, counting cash with her one good eye. She doesn’t look up when the bell jingles. “Sashenka. You look like hell.”

“You’re a vision, too, old woman.”

She snorts, slamming the cash drawer shut. “Flattery will get you far with most women. Not me, though.” But for all her tough talk, she’s already shuffling toward the kitchen, waving her cane at a booth. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”

The place is empty—it’s the 2 P.M. lull—so I slump into the same booth I hid under as a kid, back when I was still dodging my father’s drunken backhands. The wood underside bears the knife marks where I carved my initials at fourteen, drunk on stolen vodka and rage.

Zoya returns with a chipped teapot and two glasses. She sets them down, fills both. “Drink.”

The tea is bitter, brewed strong enough to raise ghosts. Just how I like it. She watches me swallow, her milky eye narrowing. “So. The girl.”

“Who said anything about the girl?”

She points a withered finger right between my eyes. “Your face tells me everything I need to know. You’re letting her under your skin.”

“I’m not letting her do anything.”

“Akh, spare me the bullshit, malchik. I saw how you looked at her when you brought her here.” She stabs that bony finger at my chest. “Heard your heart going pitter-patter, too. You’re like a boy who found a stray pup and doesn’t know whether to kick it or keep it.”

My grip tightens on the cup until some of the tea sloshes over the edge. Steam rises from the puddle. “She’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”

Zoya leans in. “Your father said the same about your mother. Look how that ended.”

The mention of him is a match to gasoline. I’m on my feet before I realize it, chair screeching. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t remind you that love isn’t a weakness?” She stands, too, trembling but relentless. “Your mother—Nataliya—she was strength itself. Soft hands, sharp mind. She kneaded dough while your father kneaded corpses. And you…” Her cane taps my shin, hard enough to bruise. “You’re her son. Not his.”

The air’s too thick. The walls are too close. I stride to the kitchen, needing space, but her voice follows.

“You think closing your heart makes you safe? Makes you strong?” She laughs, a dry, hacking sound. “All it does is make you alone.”

I brace myself against the stainless steel counter, head bowed. The kitchen smells of dill and burnt sugar—my mother’s perfume. Her voice still whispers in the hum of the fridge, in the drip of the leaky faucet.

Moy malchik. My brave boy.

Zoya’s hand settles on my back, light as a sparrow. “Sasha…”

I whirl on her. “What do you want from me? A confession? Fine. She’s… infuriating. Reckless. Stubborn. She looks at me like I’m some broken thing she’s determined to piece back together, even if it cuts her hands to shreds.” Snarling, I turn back around so she can’t see my face. “And I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop thinking about her. About what happens when the ten days are up. When the deal’s done. When she realizes…”

“Realizes what?”

“That I’m exactly what she thinks I am.” The admission hangs in the air, ugly and raw. “A monster. A killer. My father’s son.”

Zoya sighs, cupping my face. Her palms are rough, calloused from decades in this kitchen. “You listen to me, Sashenka. You are Nataliya’s son. Her heart. Her kindness.” Her thumb brushes the scar on my throat—the gift from Yakov that keeps on giving. “But kindness isn’t a cage. It’s a choice. Every day, you choose: armor or mercy. You’ve worn the armor long enough.”

I pull away, throat tight. “Mercy gets you killed.”

“So does loneliness.” She grabs my arm, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Your mother chose love, even when it cost her everything. You think she’d want you to waste your life building walls instead of bridges?”

The old clock above the stove ticks. Somewhere, a pipe clangs.

“She’d want me to survive,” I mutter.

“Survive?” Zoya snorts. “You’re not surviving. You’re hiding.”

I pick up a knife from the butcher’s block and start flipping back and forth in my hand. Every revolution in the air, it catches the light and seems to glow for a moment. “The Serbians are circling. Leander’s commitment is wobbling. If I show weakness now⁠—”

She smacks my shoulder and the knife goes clattering to the kitchen floor. “Since when is love weakness? Bozhe moi, you’re dense.” Zoya rummages in a nearby drawer, then pulls something out and slams it onto the counter: a rolling pin, chipped and aged. I recognize it immediately. “Your mother loved fiercely. Protected you. Protected me. Even when that svoloch Yakov took his pound of flesh to dissuade her from trying.” Her voice cracks. “You think her love made her weak? No. It made her dangerous. The kind of dangerous that outlives bullets and bastards alike.”

The rolling pin is the one my mother used—handle worn smooth by decades of fingerprints. Zoya shoves it into my hands. “You want to honor her? Then stop fighting your own heart. Let someone in before it’s too late.”

I stare at the rolling pin, at the ghost of my mother’s grip. Let someone in. Let Ariel in.

It’s fucking ludicrous.

Zoya pats my cheek. “Go. Before I start charging you rent.”