10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 30

The Beretta 92 clicks empty in my palm as I fire the last bullet. Five shots ripple through the abandoned warehouse—five targets meet their untimely demise.

I lower the gun to check my work. Not bad. Center mass on each silhouette.

Feliks whistles as the last shell casing clinks to concrete. “Not bad, brattan. You shoot like a man who’s getting laid regularly.”

I eject the magazine harder than necessary. “Impossible. Your mother moved to Miami.”

He laughs, tossing me fresh ammo. “You wish you were that lucky. Mama Vasiliev would eat you alive.” Slouching against the wall of the shooting stall, he squints at me. “But seriously, you’ve got that post-coital glow. Library date went well, da?”

I take my time loading in the new clip, racking a bullet into the chamber, squinting down the sight to check the alignment. The whole time, I do my damndest to ignore the thoughts crowding in my head.

Ariel’s mouth going pliant under mine.

Her nails digging desperate half-moons into my shoulders.

Falling, I’d called it.

Bullshit.

This isn’t normal gravity at work. This is getting sucked into a black hole.

“She’s…” I look down the barrel, exhale, and fire. The target’s head explodes. “… persistent.”

Feliks snorts. “Persistent. Right. And Chernobyl was a minor electrical fire. Where do you two lovebirds go from here?”

“We’re negotiating. Figuring things out.”

“Ah, negotiating.” Feliks mimes jerking off to let me know what he thinks of that particular train of thought. “And then what? Holding hands in Central Park? Buying matching I <3 NY hoodies?”

I scowl at him, if only because the Central Park crack hits a little too close to home. “Do you know what happens to men who talk too much?”

“They get promoted to pakhan?”

“They get promoted to target practice.”

Feliks just chuckles. He knows he’s too valuable to kill. All I can do is scowl, give him the cold shoulder, and keep firing my feelings down-range.

Much to the dismay of my tattered paper targets, I burn through two more magazines before a text buzzes at my hip.

I holster the Beretta, already knowing it’s her. She’s been texting all day—photos of her work laptop, her lunch, a shot of her big toe mid-pedicure captioned Putting warpaint on.

This time, it’s an address in Queens. Followed by:

Change of plans tonight. Pick me up from my mom’s place. 7 PM. Don’t be late, Dracula.

P.S. If you’re thinking of bringing flowers, I’d suggest bourbon instead. She’s not a nun.

Feliks peers over my shoulder to snoop. “Uh-oh. Meeting Mama Makris? Better wear your good knuckle dusters.”

“Shut up.”

“Bring a fruit basket,” he suggests. “Old ladies love pears. Shows you’ve got a sensitive side.”

“I’ll show you sensitivity.” I shove the phone back in my pocket and nod at the mangled targets. “Clean this up. And tell the boys there’s another shipment coming in tonight. I want the team ready to receive it.”

He salutes with two fingers. “Aye-aye, Casanova.”

From the outside, Belle Ward is no different than any of her neighbors. Her little house in Queens is quaint, small, humble. Bent gutter, stuffed with withered leaves. Bushes out front that have seen better days. It’s all utterly forgettable.

I stand on the stoop at 6:58 P.M., adjusting my cuffs. I brought neither flowers nor bourbon. Just a Swiss Army knife in my pocket and the crushing sense that this is a terrible fucking idea.

Then the door creaks open, and Ariel’s face appears in the gap.

“You’re early,” she says.

“You’re filthy.”

She swipes hair from her cheekbone, leaving a grease streak. “Mom’s sink pipe burst last week. She just now told me. I’ve been telling her to let me fix the valve, but she’s stubborn, and⁠—”

I shoulder her out of the way and stride into the kitchen. Both of the cabinet doors beneath the sink have been propped open. When I kneel down, I see copper pipes gleaming dully under my phone’s flashlight. The problem jumps out at me immediately.

“It’s the gasket.”

“How do you—Ow!”

She barely manages to catch the phone I tossed to her. Not my fault she’s slow. “Hold the light.”

For ten minutes, the only sounds are our breathing and the occasional curse as freezing water sprays my wrists.

Ariel’s knee brushes my shoulder. “Why are you helping?”

“So you’re not dripping sewage on my loafers.”

“A gentleman as always,” she mutters. She cranes her neck to check a clock on the far wall. “Hm. Weird. Mom was supposed to be back by now. She said she had to run to the grocery store.”

The pipes groan as I twist the final coupling. “Try the water now.”

She scrambles to turn on the faucet. After a brief belch, a healthy gush streams into her cupped hands. “Holy shit. You’re like a Russian Bob Vila.”

“Who?”

“He’s a— Never mind.” She hesitates. “Thanks, Sasha.”

Before I can respond, the front door clicks.

“Ari? You still here? You didn’t drown underneath the sink, did you? Goodness, the checkout aisle was—” Belle freezes, grocery bags dangling. Her eyes—which are Ariel’s eyes, but weathered by older storms—dart between us.

Ariel steps forward. “Sasha, this is my mom. Mom, this is⁠—”

“Ozerov.” Belle sets the bags down slowly.

I wipe grease on my slacks before offering a hand. “Mrs. Makris.”

“It’s Ward.” She ignores my hand and turns to her daughter instead. “Ari, the new lock on the basement door isn’t latching. Could you…?”

Ariel throws me a warning look before vanishing down the hall.

Belle waits until her footsteps fade. Then she whirls on me.

“I know who you are.” Her stare could flay skin.

“I assure you you don’t.” I lean against the wall, hands in my pockets, watching this five-foot nothing woman square up against a man who’s killed hundreds without a drop of fear in her eyes.

I admire her fire. Makes sense that she’s Ariel’s mother.

“I know enough.” Her knuckles whiten around her keys, as if she’s considering gutting me with them. “More importantly, I know better, Mr. Ozerov. I’ve seen this before. The diamond cufflinks. The tailor-made charm. I know you.”

The fraught tension in her face—that must be Leander’s doing, as sure as the scars on my throat and back were left there by my father’s hand. It ignites something in my chest that wishes it could reach back in time and erase this proud woman’s suffering.

“I’m not here for anything like that, Ms. Ward. I promise.”

Fuck me, what a funny thing to say. Just six days ago, that would’ve been a bold-faced lie. What is it now? A whole truth? Part of one? I don’t know. Fucking hell, I just don’t know.

Belle’s eyes narrow. “You’re good at this. Better than Leander ever was. You almost sound human when you lie.”

I push off the wall. She doesn’t flinch. “I don’t lie.”

“No? Then tell me why a man like you wants a life with her.”

Because your ex-husband’s shipping routes could end a war before it starts. That’s the easy answer, the business answer. It dies in my throat.

Instead, I see Ari in the library—cheeks flushed, mouth bruised from mine, whispering, This doesn’t mean I like you even as her body arched closer.

A twitch ripples through my left hand. I crush it against my thigh.

Belle catches the movement. Always watching. Head tilting to the side in curiosity, she asks, “You don’t know, do you?”

“Your daughter’s stubborn,” I growl. “Annoying. Reckless with her sarcasm and her… everything.” The words come too fast, too raw. I clench my teeth, but the dam’s cracked. “But when she looks at me?” My thumb grazes the scar at my throat. “She doesn’t see a monster.”

Belle stills. “And what does she see? No, better question: what do you see when you look at her?”

The basement door creaks downstairs. Ari’s muffled curse floats up. “Stupid effing latch⁠—”

Belle doesn’t look away from me.

“A mirror,” I answer quietly.

Her breath hitches. For the first time since she saw me in her home, her armor splinters—grief pooling in the cracks.

Then footsteps creak up the basement staircase, followed by Ariel’s panting breath. The strain goes rushing out of the moment.

Belle grabs my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “If you hurt her⁠—”

“I’ll break myself first.”

Yakov’s voice in my head: Too damn honest. Too damn weak.

She searches my face. Then, a nod—sharp, reluctant. “Men like you don’t know what to do with happy endings, Sasha Ozerov.”

“We don’t deserve them in the first place.”

The basement door bangs open. Ariel strides in, scowling. “Hinges were installed upside down. Had to take the whole thing apart. What’d I miss?”

Belle releases me, smoothing her apron. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all. Now, come, Sasha—let me give you a tour.”

She guides me around the house, the picture of a perfect hostess. The place itself is a time capsule. Faded lace doilies, framed photos of a younger Belle holding two dark-haired girls, a piano with sheet music yellowed at the edges.

“And that’s that,” she concludes when we return to the kitchen. “Not much to it.”

“You have a beautiful home. Strangely enough, I mean it. It’s so far from my world that I want to laugh out loud on seeing it. Mismatched cutlery in the drawers, but with fingerprints smudged into the metal that say it’s been loved for so long. Watercolors she must’ve done herself hang on the walls.

It’s a quiet, simple life, but a full one.

The shit makes my chest ache.

“Why, thank you,” she says demurely. “Perfect timing, too. Dinner’s almost done. Ariel, check the oven. Sasha—” She points to a rickety stepstool by the ceiling-high pantry. “Be a dear and fetch the bourbon? Top shelf.”

I nod. “Of course, Ms. Ward.”

The stool groans under my weight as I reach up to fetch the liquor. But up here, I’m eye level with the clock on the wall, and something occurs to me.

The hands haven’t moved since I walked in.

Frowning, I lower myself down, set the bottle of bourbon on the counter, and approach it. A tiny, winding crack in the wooden surface is calling my name. With a fingertip, I lift the broken facade and peer inside.

Ach, it’s all so wrong. Gears twisted, springs loose, mechanisms lolling like shreds of an open wound.

I immediately pluck it off the shelf and walk it over to the dining table. I peel off the shattered front piece, murmuring to the timepiece, “Que t’est-il arrivé, mon ami?”

Belle, bustling through the kitchen, freezes in place. “You speak French?”

“Enough to order wine and piss off waiters.” I lift the clock carefully to peek underneath. “Ariel, hand me a screwdriver from the tool kit.”

“Since when do you fix clocks?” she asks in amazement as she brings the tool over.

“Since never. But my mother… She had a knack for mending broken things.”

Ariel is frowning as she watches me work, but Belle’s face looks stricken, fragile, her hand covering her mouth. “Leander bought that for me on our honeymoon in Paris,” she whispers hoarsely. “I broke it the day Jasmine left.”

I freeze. A lot of things broke the day Jasmine left. I should know—I was there to send her off into the next life. But these women weren’t where I was. There’s a reason they don’t know my face—only the consequences of the decisions I made.

“Give me twenty minutes and it’ll work again.”

“Oh, Sasha, you don’t have to⁠—”

“Twenty minutes.”

Ariel watches me like I’ve sprouted horns. Belle keeps stirring the food on the stove, sipping bourbon, glancing furtively in my direction every minute as I dismantle the clock and begin to resuscitate it.

It’s methodical work. Cleaning rusted gears. Realigning escapements. My mother’s voice hums in my ear: Careful, Sasha. Time is a jealous thing. It hates being mishandled.

When the first chime rings out, crisp and clear, Belle’s hand flies right back to her mouth.

Ariel gawks at the clock, then at me. “You… fixed it.”

“Temporarily. It still needs proper restoration.” I wipe grease on my handkerchief. “I know someone who can do a better job than I could.”

Belle touches the polished wood, eyes bright. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Ozerov.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Ariel’s still gaping. I lean close, inhaling her scent. “Close your mouth, ptichka. You’ll catch flies.”

She knees me under the table.

When dinner is over and the kitchen has been cleaned, Belle claps her hands and smiles. All traces of her shock when I repaired the clock are gone. Same with the fire with which she first greeted me. She’s been nothing but pleasant since then, though I still catch her staring holes into the side of my face when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

“So!” she says. “Where are you taking my girl tonight?”

“Actually, Mama,” interjects Ariel, “I’m the one taking Sasha out.”

Belle’s eyebrow floats up. “I stand corrected. What’s in store?”

She bites her lip to stop from grinning. “It’s a surprise.”

“For both of us,” I mutter. Ariel’s been cagey all day long. Despite texting me nonstop, she’s refused to divulge a single detail of tonight’s activities.

“Trust me, you’re gonna hate it,” she warns with a cheeky elbow to the ribs.

“Well, just make sure you’re home before you turn into a pumpkin, m’kay?” Belle wraps an arm around Ariel’s waist and guides us to the door. She kisses Ariel’s cheek and then turns to squint suspiciously at me. “As for you… I don’t know what you’d turn into if you’re out too late.”

“A cloud of bats, if Bram Stoker is even remotely accurate.” Ariel giggles when I pinch her side playfully.

“But,” Belle continues, still talking to me, “it’s no good for anyone to lurk about the city when it gets too late. For anyone, do you hear me?”

I nod as respectfully as I can, trying to put the proper assurances in the gesture. I want her to see what I feel—that the ground beneath Ariel and me is shifting. That things aren’t what they seem.

That maybe men like me—or at least one man like me—might just figure out what to do with a happy ending after all.

“I hear you, Ms. Ward,” I tell her. “Loud and clear.”

We’ve been circling the block for damn near a half hour as Ariel’s frown deepens and she counts the addresses again. “79… 81… 83… Oh, there it is!”

I growl in irritation. “Right. 85. Between 83 and 87. Who could’ve possibly known that’s where it would be?”

“Oh, don’t be a grump,” she scolds, swatting my forearm. “Tonight’s gonna be fun.”

“Still keeping it a secret?”

“Until the last possible second,” she confirms.

I park right in front of a fire hydrant. “What if someone tows you?” Ariel asks as she looks at the very clearly printed NO PARKING HERE sign looming from the sidewalk.

I laugh. “I would not like to be the man who tries something that stupid.” Then I lock the car, tuck my keys in my pocket, and drape an arm around her shoulders. “Come on. 85, right? It’s right…”

The voice drains out of me as I get close enough to read the sign hidden under the awning.

PRIVATE LAMAZE CLASSES, it reads in bold fuchsia print. MAMAS AND PAPAS IN TRAINING, ENTER HERE!

I turn and look at Ariel. “What the hell did you cook up?”