16. Ruslan
Ruslan
When we return from the balcony, the ballroom has shifted. Not visibly, because the chandeliers still glow rose gold against the ceiling and the champagne is still flowing. Politicians and donors still laugh too loudly at mediocre jokes. But the energy underneath it all has shifted.
Everyone is waiting for the main event.
Emma settles against my side as we move deeper into the room again, and I keep one hand firm against her waist. Her earlier uncertainty has dulled somewhat after the balcony, replaced by something steadier. Good.
When Andrei walks through the doors, the room erupts in applause.
Victoria enters just behind him in a fitted ivory gown that probably cost more than most people here make in a year. She’s thin and elegant, with a smile that gleams beneath the lights as cameras immediately begin flashing.
But it’s Andrei I can’t look away from. My half-brother looks exactly how I remember.
Tall, controlled, and devilishly handsome.
The dark pit in my stomach understands why Emma fell for him.
He has our mother’s bowed upper lip and aquiline nose, his father’s hooded eyes and jawline.
Every single one of his movements is performative, as he draws Victoria forward and raises their clasped hands. Her ring glints.
Emma feels the change in me immediately. Her fingers tighten slightly against my jacket as my stomach turns in disgust.
Andrei smiles at someone near the entrance, shakes hands, kisses Victoria’s cheek for the cameras. The entire thing feels manufactured, like watching an actor perform a role he’s played for so long he no longer remembers himself beneath it.
Then his eyes sweep across the ballroom. The distance between us suddenly feels very small. My jaw aches, and I realize I’ve been clenching it.
Years.
Years without seeing him in person, years imagining this moment. Somehow none of it prepared me for the reality of standing in the same room again.
Rage begins curling low in my chest, hot and familiar.
I can feel it building beneath my skin with frightening speed, old instincts pressing against the leash I’ve spent years forcing onto myself.
Back then he had me by the balls. Despite being in my early 30s and almost a decade into fighting my way into the Bratva’s leadership, he managed to blindside me.
A DA and commissioner paid off; half a dozen dirty cops ready to turn on me.
The memories surface bitterly, and a voice inside whispers:
Break his jaw.
Drag him outside.
Make him bleed.
Emma tilts her head up slightly, studying me with growing concern. “Rus.”
I don’t answer.
Across the ballroom, Andrei says something to Victoria that makes her laugh. One of his hands settles against her back possessively as they chat with guests. Something inside me nearly snaps.
“Not yet,” Emma squeaks out, her hand fisting the back of my jacket. “Russ, this is supposed to rattle him.” The strain in her voice tells me everything I need to know about how this looks like I’m the one rattled.
And she’s right.
The realization arrives just in time. Abruptly, I turn away.
“We’re leaving.”
Emma hesitates. “Are you sure? There are some people, reporters I think—”
“We’re leaving.”
She’s not wrong; eyes are on us, thumbs tapping against phones, no doubt making note that I left the party without speaking to my brother. I guide her toward the exit before she can argue, my hand firm against her waist. Conversations blur around us as we move through the crowd.
“Ruslan,” Emma says quietly once we’re halfway across the ballroom, “are you sure?”
Finally, I look down at her. Really look at her.
The cream dress. The flushed mouth from earlier. The stubbornness still sitting behind her eyes despite everything this evening threw at her.
Andrei spent months convincing this woman she wasn’t enough. He was a fool.
I stop walking, and Emma barely has time to react before I catch her jaw and kiss her hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Her body softens against mine almost instantly, fingers curling into my lapel as the tension between us sparks hot and immediate.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are unfocused. The Pakhan in me catches a younger man turning away surreptitiously, dropping his phone to his side. No doubt he snuck a photo that will appear in the Denver tabloids in the next few days.
Emma sways on her heels, dizzy. My mouth curves slightly.
“Oh, I’m sure. There’s nothing more I want than to leave here, with you.”
Then I lead her out of the ballroom before I change my mind and start a war three days too early.
* * *
The next morning, Denver wakes up obsessed with Andrei Smirnov. As if they weren’t already. Emma has the volume on the television in the living area turned down, but I still catch the murmur of it. And given the frown on her face, I know she’s watching a recap of the celebration.
We slept in the bedroom last night. Or rather, she let me sleep in the bedroom. Just the thought of it makes me smirk—as if she could say no if I really forced the issue.
But I hadn’t had to. After coming back, we were both exhausted and stuck in our heads. Emma disappeared into the bathroom as I stripped off the suit and sat on the arm of the couch, trying to contain my anger.
When she came out damp and in pajamas, all she had to do was tilt her head toward the bedroom. I fell asleep with her tucked under my arm.
Now, she flinches when I step out of the room in jeans and a t-shirt. Emma sits curled in one corner of the enormous sectional sofa with coffee in both hands.
She doesn’t try to spare me the view of what’s on the television. Instead, she holds out a coffee and asks, “Do you want to…?” gesturing to the spot beside her.
Cameras flash across the screen as Andrei and Victoria emerge from some upscale bakery downtown looking effortlessly perfect. The anchors are practically salivating.
“Colorado’s favorite power couple…”
“Down-to-earth despite the glamour…”
“Proof that true love still exists in politics…”
I mute the television before the woman can finish the sentence. The silence that follows somehow feels worse.
Emma glances at me carefully over the rim of her coffee mug. “You know, threatening the television isn’t going to help.”
“I was not threatening it.”
“You looked one second away from throwing something through it.”
A fair observation. I lean back against the sofa and drag a hand slowly over my mouth, trying to contain the steady irritation crawling beneath my skin. Outside the suite windows, Denver glitters beneath sharp autumn sunlight. Inside, the air feels increasingly suffocating.
Andrei smiling for cameras. Victoria touching his arm adoringly.
He doesn’t deserve any of it. I know exactly what he is beneath the surface.
The hypocrisy alone makes me violent.
Emma studies me for another moment before setting her coffee down carefully. “You need to get out of the hotel.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
My eyes narrow slightly.
She presses forward anyway. Brave woman.
“You were restless all night. Yes, I noticed; it was hard not to, Russ. At this point, you’re making me nervous.”
“Good.”
I avoid looking at her and reach for the remote again, only for Emma to snatch it off the table first.
Bold. Very bold.
“Ruslan.”
“Emma.”
“You need fresh air.” A dark eyebrow arches, and it doesn’t escape me that she’s mimicking last night. I can still feel the heat between her thighs on my fingertips, the drag of fabric barely covering her core…
“I need my brother dismembered.” Lust and anger are warring inside me, both fighting for dominion.
“Okay, well, one of those things is more socially acceptable.”
Against my will, a laugh almost escapes me. Emma looks far too pleased with herself. “There,” she says triumphantly. “That. Human emotion. Progress.”
I stare at her for several long seconds before standing abruptly.
“Fine.”
“Wait, really?” She stands too, almost stumbling, and I catch her elbow.
“We’ll go out.”
Relief flashes across her face, followed quickly by suspicion.
“Wait. We?”
“Yes.”
“I meant you should go out.”
“I know what you meant. But don’t forget, Emma, your job here is to be my date.” With a light tug on her elbow, I pull her to me, savoring the feel of her soft body pressed into my side.
I shouldn’t want her this badly; shouldn’t tease us both like this. Last night was already too much.
Not the balcony, but enjoying being in bed with her. She’s right, I was restless, but not for the reason she thinks. And not because I wanted to peel the ridiculously prim pajamas off her body.
It was something more than that. I haven’t slept in the same bed with a woman for…longer than I want to admit. The warmth, the intimacy. I forgot that exists.
For some people. Not me.
“You wanted me out of the hotel,” I continue, watching in satisfaction as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Congratulations. You are now accompanying me.”
Emma huffs. “This feels vaguely hostage-adjacent.”
“Well, I am a Pakhan.”
That earns a glare. I hold out my hand anyway, but Emma crosses her arms.
“I’m just not sure this is a good idea.” There’s a flicker of apprehension across her pretty features.
Why? the dark voice in me wonders. What has she been thinking of? Is she as tempted as I am?
“You calm me down.” The admission slips out before I can stop it, and I clear my throat, stumbling on: “I’d like you to accompany me, to take my mind off of everything, and get back on track.”
Emma stills. Her eyes soften, just slightly, before she looks away and scoffs, “That’s not healthy, Ruslan. Sounds like reverse Stockholm Syndrome.”
That earns her a smirk, because I couldn’t agree more. For whatever reason, Emma Pierce is becoming more distracting than I anticipated when I formed this plan. She doesn’t take my hand, but slips by me to the bedroom and closes the door softly.
* * *
When the car pulls up outside the botanical gardens, Emma turns and looks at me in surprise.
“Quieter than I anticipated,” I murmur, looking past her, through the window.
Late summer hangs over Denver in fading gold, the warmth lingering in the sunlight while the shadows already carry autumn’s chill. Flowers still bloom in rich bursts of color, but there are hints of decay beneath the beauty now. Leaves beginning to curl. Petals browning at the edges.
Endings disguised as elegance.
Emma walks beside me along a stone path lined with roses, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. For once, she isn’t tense from being watched. There are no cameras here, no need to perform.
“You like this place,” she says after a while. “You seem to know your way around.”
I glance toward the greenhouse ahead of us, sunlight reflecting gold against the glass panels. “My father used to bring me here, but it’s changed a lot in the last ten years. There are new paths, new,” I gesture, “sculptures.”
Emma’s lips are parted, and I realize that I’ve talked about something entirely off-limits: the past. Up until now, our relationship has been focused on the future.
“When you were little?”
“Yes.” There’s no going back now. Even I’m not that cold of a man. She won this information fair and square, by distracting me with those weather eyes and the cinched jumpsuit that draws my eyes to her waist, her curves. She looks beautiful among the last of the flowers.
I shove my hands into my pockets and keep walking. “He was a florist before…everything else.”
“Really?”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “You sound disappointed.”
“No, I just…” She hesitates. “I don’t know. I guess I imagined your family business being something more terrifying. You didn’t take over from him?”
“Oh, it became terrifying eventually. But no; that was my creation. My father was a simple man of simple pleasures.”
That earns a reluctant smile. I find myself wanting to keep it there.
“He liked beautiful things,” I continue after a moment. “Flowers. Gardens. Fabrics. He taught me that softness is not weakness.”
Emma studies me carefully while we move beneath an archway heavy with climbing vines.
“That explains the fashion.”
Partially.
I nod once. “Nature inspires most collections. Back when I was building things, there needed to be some truth to the shadows, so people would be willing to look past them. Colors. Shapes. Texture. People forget fashion is art before it becomes business.”
“And crime?” she asks lightly.
I smirk without looking at her. “That came later, and easily.”
We fall quiet again as we wander deeper into the gardens. Somewhere nearby, water trickles softly from a fountain hidden among the trees. The entire place smells faintly of roses and damp earth.
Peaceful. Too peaceful; I feel the muscles in my shoulders relaxing, forgetting about the man yards behind us who tucks himself into corners and carries a concealed Glock. Andrei wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something here, even on a quiet day.
Emma stops near a cluster of late-blooming dahlias, leaning down slightly to brush her fingertips carefully along one of the petals. The sunlight catches her hair, turning the darker strands bronze.
Beautiful.
When she straightens again, we’re standing too close. Neither of us moves. Her eyes lift slowly to mine, and something shifts between us.
Not lust this time, not adrenaline.
Something quieter.
I reach up before thinking and brush a strand of hair away from her face. Emma inhales softly, her body going still beneath my hand. The look in her eyes nearly destroys my restraint entirely.
For one reckless moment, I almost kiss her.
Not in the possessive way that I tell myself is because she’s mine, a hostage rightly taken; no, this would be too honest.
Emma sways closer, like she feels it too. And I step back.
Reality crashes between us. The reason we’re here, Andrei, the wedding, revenge. I want to come home, I want to come to these gardens whenever I feel like doing so, and for that to happen I need to take him down.
Emma’s expression closes almost instantly, walls sliding carefully back into place. Mine do the same.
Coward. The thought is bitter, but accurate. This is self-preservation. I can’t let a woman, even one as tempting as Emma, take down my empire brick by brick. Not when I’m so close.
I clear my throat and look away toward the gardens stretching beyond us.
“I should call Stepan.”
“Right,” she says quietly.
Every moment I spend forgetting why I’m here makes this more dangerous than it already is. Somewhere in Denver, Andrei is still breathing. I intend to correct that.