10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 48

The offices of The Phoenix still look like the wrong end of a subway rat, but at least there’s now a potted ficus in the corner.

In the newspaper business, we call that “progress.”

I’m eyeballs-deep in rewiring a printer that predates the dinosaurs when Gina’s voice slices through the hum of fluorescent lights. “Holy shit, Ward. You turned a trash fire into… a slightly less smoky trash fire.”

I spin around, grease smeared across my cheek. Gina and Lora stand in the doorway holding cardboard boxes labeled GAZETTE CRAP in Sharpie. Lora’s already got her sensible cardigan sleeves rolled up.

“First day of work and you’re already late,” I say, grinning.

Gina drops her box on an empty desk with a thud. “Traffic was a bear. Also, I stopped to flip off the Gazette building.” She eyes the exposed wiring dangling from the ceiling. “Are we sure this place isn’t gonna give us all tetanus?”

“Tetanus builds character.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Welcome to The Phoenix. We’ve got Wi-Fi, questionable plumbing, and…” I gesture to the far wall where I’ve taped up my first front-page mock-up—a scorching exposé on city council kickbacks that John would never let me pursue. “Unbridled journalistic rage.”

Lora peers at the headline. “You spelled ‘embezzlement’ wrong.”

I blush. “I haven’t hired a copy editor yet. We’ll work on that.”

With that, we dive in. I’d love to pretend that it’s a fun, laugh-filled montage scored to some peppy pop song, but the reality is that it’s a long, hard slog that makes little discernible progress no matter how much effort we throw at it. The truth of the matter is that The Patriot Press employees made their workspace into a reflection of their magazine: a pile of utter garbage.

The dumpster out back gets filled. Mold gets scrubbed away. Cockroaches are cursed out by Gina and then hit with lethal doses of what she calls her homemade Get The Fuck Away From Me spray. It’s shockingly effective.

By the time the afternoon sun is slanting through the windows, we’re all exhausted. But morale is surprisingly high. Turns out hard work is rewarding when you’re doing it for your own higher calling.

As we’re taking a break, Sasha strides in like he owns the place—which, I suppose, he technically does. Feliks trails behind him balancing three coffees and a box of donuts, and behind him come two-dozen or so Bratva men who look wildly out of place in a sea of cubicles.

“Wonderful,” Gina mutters. “The emotionally constipated brigade is here.”

Feliks plops the donuts onto Lora’s desk. “Compliments of the management.” His grin widens when Gina snags a cruller. “Careful, there. Those’ll go straight to your hips.”

Gina takes a massive, aggressive bite. “Good,” she spits, crumbs flying from her mouth. “More of me to hate.”

Sasha circles the room, inspecting my haphazard renovations. “You kept the bloodstain.” He nods to a dark splotch near the supply closet.

“Charming, right?” I answer with a meek smile. “Gives the place… ambiance.”

Lora edges away from the stain. “Whose blood do we think that is?”

“Former gossip columnist,” Feliks says cheerfully. “Turns out writing about celebrity nip-slips doesn’t prepare you for⁠—”

“Feliks,” Sasha warns.

“—stress-induced paper cuts! Very tragic. But I’m sure he made a full recovery.”

Gina snorts into her coffee. I catch the way Feliks’s eyes linger on her laugh lines.

Sasha stops beside me, voice dropping. “You good, ptichka?”

His thumb brushes the printer grease on my jaw. I ignore the spark it sends down my spine and turn to pat the geriatric printer at my side. “Peachy. Just teaching this Nineties relic to respect its new queen.”

“For its sake, I hope it learns quickly.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Do you need anything?”

“A time machine. And maybe a flamethrower.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “Don’t forget—dinner with your father tonight.”

My gut clenches. Right. Can’t wait to bread with the devil himself. In theory, it’s date #9, and given how good things are between Sasha and me, it should be cause for celebration.

But that’s exactly why I don’t want to go: because things are going so well. Why ruin it with Leander, who’s never seen a good thing he didn’t want to ruin?

“I know,” I tell Sasha, double-clutching his hand for moral support. “But we’ve still got an hour or so of daylight left. I’m gonna squeeze these worker bees for every ounce of effort I can get.”

Sasha chuckles and cups my cheek. “I’ve taught you well. I brought more muscle for you to torture and they all know to do anything you ask. So have at ‘em. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

I step up on a desk to speak over the assembled masses. I whistle with two fingers in my mouth to draw their attention, which works on Lora and all of the Bratva soldiers that Sasha brought to do my bidding.

Gina and Feliks, however, don’t notice. They’re deep in the midst of locking horns over what sounds like perhaps the most inane bullshit ever used as argument fodder.

“… Listen here, you Russian Ken doll,” she snaps, “I told you that if you touch my Post-Its, I will end you.”

“Big threats from a little woman,” replies Feliks.

Gina whirls on him, her box braids swinging. “Keep laughing, Frosted Tips. I know twelve ways to kill a man with a ballpoint pen.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Feliks’s grin only stretches as he pushes off the wall.

I rub my temples and wonder idly if there might be a bottle of Xanax stashed in the supply closet somewhere. I’m less than one day into my new role as media mogul and I’m already daydreaming about setting the sprinkler system off. “Everyone shut up and gather ‘round. Now. Especially you two dummies.”

To my surprise, they all obey. Even the two hulking Bratva IT guys Sasha gifted me—Stefan and Pavel, who look like they bench-press SUVs between coding sessions—shuffle over from where they’d started picking apart the server room.

I clear my throat, suddenly nervous as thirty pairs of eyes settle on me. “Okay. Ground rules. One: This isn’t a mafia front. We’re a legitimate paper, which means no laundering money through classifieds. Two: If you’re carrying a gun, I don’t want to see it. Ever. Three: Lora’s in charge of layout. Question her choices, and you answer to me.”

Stefan raises a meaty hand. “What if enemy comes to shoot us? Do we still not show gun?”

“If someone storms in here shooting,” Feliks drawls before I can answer, “you have my permission to turn them into a colander. Happy, chief?”

Gina fake-coughs into her fist. “Kiss-ass.”

I point at him. “You, sir, are on thin ice. If there are no more questions, I’m gonna come around and start giving you tasks. Good? Great. Let’s go.”

The next hour descends into beautiful chaos. Lora transforms the production schedule into a color-coded masterpiece while arguing with Pavel the entire time. Gina badgers Feliks into fetching her another iced latte (“Three sugars, extra drizzle, or I’ll revoke your kneecap privileges”), and I catch him slipping his number onto the cup sleeve.

“Subtle,” I mutter as he saunters past my office.

Feliks winks. “You hired a pit bull. Someone’s gotta tame her.”

“She’ll eat you alive,” I warn.

“Promises, promises.”

I could keep working all through the night. But the sun is finally dipping below the horizon and I’ve got dinner with Baba to go to. So when Gina comes to fetch me, I reluctantly concede defeat.

“Pack it up, Woodward,” she says. “Your mobster prince is here to pick you up.”

Sure enough, Sasha is leaning against the reception desk in a charcoal suit that should come with a warning label. His gaze flicks from my ink-stained hands to the messy bun I’ve secured with a pencil.

“Long day?” he asks when I approach.

“You try herding cats with PhDs in chaos theory.” I nod toward Gina and Feliks, who are now engaged in a furious debate over… honestly, I’ve lost track.

Sasha checks his watch. “Dinner with your father’s in two hours. You need time to change.”

“Change?” I pluck at my stinky, sweaty tee. “You don’t think my Sorry for Having Nice Tits and Correct Opinions shirt will fly with my father figure?”

“No, but not because it’s wrong,” Sasha teases, reaching around to pinch my ass. “Also, I brought you a dress.”

I bat him away. “Control freak.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

The ride back to his penthouse is a blur of stolen kisses and wandering hands. By the time we’re streaking through the marble foyer, my shirt’s halfway over my head, which, according to Sasha, confirms at least one half of the text printed on the front.

I’m reaching for his belt when he stops me with a growl against my collarbone. “Later. We’re already late.”

“You started it!”

“And I’ll finish it, too, if you’re not careful.” He nips my earlobe. “But dinner comes first.”

He helps me shower—though his version of “helping” involves a vibrator and his tongue playing between my thighs—and then helps me step into the dress he bought.

It’s black as sin and fits me like a dream. “Bozhe moy,” he breathes when it’s on and I give him a sassy twirl to show off.

“Too much?” I ask.

“Not nearly enough.” He offers his arm. “Ready?”

I take it. “Let’s go disappoint a patriarch.”

His laugh echoes through the marble halls—dark, rich, and mine.