10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 26

My list of Do Not Do’s is growing worryingly long.

Do not dream of Sasha Ozerov.

Do not think of Sasha Ozerov.

For God’s sake, do not even CONSIDER fantasizing about Sasha Ozerov. You’ll summon him like Beetlejuice.

It’s a good list. Very comprehensive.

Unfortunately, it’s also useless.

Because all morning, ever since we tumbled down the mountain in the light of dawn and Sasha took me back to my apartment so I could hurriedly shower the cave dirt out of my hair and throw on a work outfit, thinking and dreaming and fantasizing about Sasha Ozerov is all I can do.

I stab at my laptop keys hard enough to crack the spacebar. Focus, Ari. Work. Words. Journalism. But all my brain is good for are ten-thousand word articles on the way his scar glowed ivory in the firelight, the broken-glass rasp of his voice saying “Sleep, ptichka.”

I curse out loud as coffee sloshes over my “World’s Okayest Reporter” mug. John’s latest assignment—about a corgi who can skateboard—mocks me from the screen. My cursor blinks accusingly where I’ve typed “Sasha” instead of “Sparkie.”

If Sparkie had been on that mountain this morning, he’d understand.

The descent was a blur of Sasha’s grip steadying my waist, lifting me over tree roots, dawn breaking like an egg yolk over his stubbled jaw. He’d driven me home in silence, his Henley still draped over my shoulders. I’d wanted to fling it into the Hudson. Instead, it’s now fermenting in my hamper, probably whispering treasonous things like, Maybe some monsters have soft edges.

Gina comes up beside me, snapping her gum. “You got beef with that corgi or something? You’re staring at the screen like you’re trying to put a hex on him.”

“I’m—”

“Shut up!”

I blink at her. “Uh… pardon?”

“SOS,” she hisses, jerking her chin toward the elevators. “Six o’clock. Code Red.”

I turn slowly. I know what I’m going to see before I see it, but somehow, that does absolutely nothing to dampen the shock.

He’s here.

Sasha Ozerov stands in the doorway of our grimy office, looking wildly out of place in a tailored charcoal suit, his scarred hands tucked casually in his pockets.

Every head in the room swivels toward him—editors pause mid-sip, interns drop highlighters, the sports guy chokes on his breakfast burrito.

What is he doing here? I mouth at Gina, panic rising.

She shrugs, eyes wide. “Dude’s like a STD—shows up uninvited and ruins your week.”

My first hope is that I can burrow beneath my desk like a meerkat and he’ll leave me alone. But when I see motion in Editor John’s office and realize just how bad it would be if Sasha nonchalantly asked my boss where he could replace me, I bolt up and practically sprint towards him.

“You—!” I jab a finger at Sasha, then at the fire escape. “Out. Now.”

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the yellowed press clippings on the walls and the half-dead ficus by the copier. “Charming place you’ve got here. I⁠—”

“Not. Another. Word.”

I drag him by the elbow out onto the little fire escape landing. I’m mad, flushed, terrified, a million emotions all at once.

I whirl on him the door clangs shut. “Do you have any idea what happens when the pakhan of the Ozerov Bratva waltzes into a newspaper office?”

“They offer me coffee?” He leans against the concrete wall, all lazy, predatory confidence. “It was terrible, by the way. Tasted like motor oil.”

“This isn’t funny! I have a career here. A life that doesn’t involve—” I gesture wildly at his entire existence.

“Criminal conspiracies? Midnight fireside chats? Me?” His mouth quirks. “Face it, ptichka. You’re stuck with all three.”

I press my palms to my eyelids. “I don’t know why I bother. Just… God, make me understand. Why are you here?”

“You missed our morning check-in call.”

“We don’t have check-in calls!”

“We do now.” He plucks a stray Post-It from my hair—a grocery list reading eggs, milk, self-respect—and tucks it into his breast pocket. “Hungry?”

“I’d rather eat my laptop.”

“Good. I know a place.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m squished beside Sasha on a splintered park bench, forcing a smile back at the street vendor who just handed him two dripping hot dogs.

“This is kidnapping,” I mutter, watching him scrutinize the toxic green relish like it might be poison. “Not to mention terrible for my productivity. I have deadlines, you know? Actual journalism to do.”

“Your editor assigned you a story about…” He squints at the mustard smeared on his thumb. “Canine athletes, was it?”

“It’s a human interest piece!”

“It’s a waste of your talent.” He takes an experimental bite, pauses, then devours the rest in three brutal chomps. “Not bad.”

I blink. “Have you… never had a hot dog before?”

“I don’t normally eat food that touches pavement.”

“It’s street meat, Sasha. A New York rite of passage.” I snatch the untouched second hot dog from his hand, biting off the tip with relish. Literally. “What’d you survive on as a kid? Caviar and death threats?”

“Vodka, mostly. Bullet casings. The occasional rat.”

“Part of me doesn’t think you’re joking.”

“Part of you might be right. But I’d believe in the joke if I were you—the reality is far uglier.”

He says it like he’s commenting on the weather—cloudy with a chance of childhood trauma. I stare at the half-eaten hot dog in my hand, suddenly nauseous.

“Hey.” His knuckle brushes my wrist. “Eat. You’re shaking.”

“I’m contemplating.”

“You’re hypoglycemic.” He nudges the food toward my lips. “Eat, or I’ll force-feed you.”

“Speaking of adjectives, you’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling. Which is a verb, but true nonetheless.”

I take a grudging bite. The pop of the mustard, the tang of onions—it’s stupidly comforting. Sasha watches me chew with unsettling focus, like he’s memorizing the way my jaw moves.

“What?” I lick ketchup from my lip.

“Nothing.” He looks away, throat bobbing. “Doesn’t matter.”

Central Park unfurls around us, all golden-hour light and scampering squirrels. I’m suddenly antsy. You’d think that yesterday’s hike debacle would’ve put me off of “walking” forever, but the thought of staying marooned on this park bench with Sasha is way too cutesy and anxiety-inducing for me.

“Walk?” I ask.

Sasha shrugs. “Sure.”

We rise, toss our garbage, and fall into step on the winding path, our shadows stretching long and tangled ahead.

“This isn’t a date,” I announce to a passing poodle. “Just so you know. So everybody knows.”

Sasha hums. “If it were, I’d have bought you better shoes.”

I glance down at my scuffed ballet flats. “These are my daily drivers.”

“They’re falling apart.”

“So’s my will to live, but here we are.”

His laugh is low and surprised. The sound does something dangerous to my ribcage. I start resolutely counting to one thousand in my head so it doesn’t fill up with steam room thoughts instead.

We pass a busker playing Sinatra on a dented saxophone. Sasha tosses a hundred-dollar bill into his case without breaking stride.

“Showoff,” I mutter.

“I prefer ‘generous philanthropist.’”

“Funny. I’d default to ‘dangerous sociopath.’”

He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “And yet you’re not afraid of me.”

It’s not really a question. Nor is it wrong.

I lift my chin. “Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Why?”

The truth sits sharp on my tongue: Because I’ve seen you tender. Because Zoya said you carry lilies to your mother’s grave. Because when you laugh the way you just did a moment ago, I forget to hate you.

Obviously, me being the emotional coward that I am, I deflect. “Because you’re secretly a Disney prince—a real softie, with a cupcake for a heart. I bet you have a song about repressed emotions and everything.”

He steps closer. Our shoes nearly touch. “Is that what you fantasize about? Me serenading you with my feelings?”

My pulse thrums. “I don’t fantasize about you.”

Liar.

Dirty, rotten liar.

Liar liar pants on fire.

Didn’t he warn you not to fib in front of him?

His gaze drops to my mouth as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Pity. Wish I could say the same about you.”

Oh, for the love of God. Why did he have to go and say something like that? Now, all I want to do, all I’m dying to do, is ask him to tell me exactly what he dreams of. Is it me? The office? The spa? The gala bathroom? Something else, something new, something better, something worse? Is it wholesome or depraved? Is he in charge or am I? Does it end with fireworks, or does it end with one of us whimpering, Please, don’t leave me like this. Don’t let me⁠—

A group of joggers swerve around us, breaking the spell. I whirl away, hug myself, and start my count back over from zero. “We should head back.”

“Why?”

“Because I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

Because even that one word is enough to chip away at my resolve.

“Because this?” I explode as I gesture wildly between us. “This bullshit, this facade? It’s not real! I mean, who are we kidding, Sasha? We all know what’s happening here. Or at least, what’s going to happen. You’ll marry me, dismantle my father’s empire, and toss me aside like yesterday’s news. That’s the deal, right? That’s what I’m signing up for? At least have the balls to say it to my face.”

His eyes cloud over. I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

“You think I want this?” His voice is gravel.

“I think you want control.”

“And you?” He crowds me against a lamppost, ignoring the tourists snapping photos of Bow Bridge. “What do you want, Ariel?”

The words claw up my throat: I want to un-know you. I want to stop wondering how your scars would feel under my lips. I want to stop pretending this is all a game, because if it is, I can’t tell whether I’m winning or losing.

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

For one terrifying second, I think he’ll kiss me. Instead, he steps back, jaw clenched. “As you wish.”

The walk to the park exit is silent. My chest aches like I’ve swallowed broken glass. At the curb, his driver waits, engine purring.

Sasha opens the door. “I’ll have Klaus take you⁠—”

“I’ll catch the subway.”

“Ariel—”

“This wasn’t a date,” I say again, desperate to believe it.

He studies me—the smudged eyeliner, the mustard stain on my sleeve, the way I’m brandishing my purse in front of me like a shield.

“No,” he agrees quietly. “It wasn’t.”

He gets in and shuts the door. The town car pulls away, leaving me watching taillights blur into crosstown traffic, until the hot dog in my stomach sours and the last of the sunlight dies.