17. Emma
Emma
Ruslan stands beside me in a charcoal suit, with one hand resting lightly against my back, speaking to a museum director like he belongs among the city’s elite.
Maybe he does. People gravitate toward him constantly tonight: business owners, politicians, socialites.
The attention only intensifies after he makes some absurdly large donation to a youth arts program, casually.
I almost choke on my champagne when I hear the number.
The museum director looks ready to cry.
Rus merely nods once, like he didn’t just donate more money than most people make in years.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I murmur under my breath as we turn and head toward a luxurious spread of food on what looks like vintage plating.
His pale eyes flick toward me briefly. “Public goodwill is useful for men in my position.”
“Men trying to hide their bad deeds?” I murmur, too low for him to hear, as he smiles and nods at someone else. A headache pulses at my temples as I remember my training and the half-dozen criminals I canvassed, all of whom hid their crimes beneath the veneer of “helping others.”
Except that Ruslan really is donating to the youth program. Making a difference. Should that tip the scales, or am I losing my mind? My taste for justice?
Across the museum, cameras flash suddenly near the grand staircase.
Andrei and Victoria.
Of course.
Victoria wears sleek navy silk tonight, and Andrei looks devastatingly handsome beside her, every inch the golden future governor standing beneath museum lights while reporters circle like sharks scenting blood in the water.
The sight still hurts more than I want it to. Not because I miss him, but because I hate that I ever trusted him. Maybe it’s a good thing I was forced to leave the FBI. Obviously, my internal compass is…off.
Rus notices the shift in my expression immediately. His fingers press lightly against my spine in warning before someone else approaches him for conversation.
“Stay close,” he murmurs quietly. The command irritates me on principle, but I nod anyway, not opposed to having a moment to myself.
I drift toward one of the side galleries while Rus gets trapped by another group of donors, grateful for the temporary escape from cameras and socialites. Abstract paintings line the walls in violent bursts of color; the room quieter than the rest of the museum.
“Emma?”
I freeze.
No.
Turning slowly, I find Ryder Demsky staring at me near the entrance to the gallery, looking equally stunned. The last time I saw her was in Miami.
The beginning of the end.
“Dios mio,” she mutters. “I thought that was you.”
Every muscle in my body tightens automatically. Old instincts. Old fear. But a gorgeous smile stretches across Ryder’s face, and she laughs.
“Relax. I’m not here for work.”
“Should that be reassuring?”
A faint grin touches her mouth. “Fair.”
She looks older than I remember, though we’re only a few years apart. Sharper around the edges, and more tired. Her son, Rex, must be close to a year old now if I remember correctly.
Her gaze shifts past me toward the crowded gala beyond the gallery, eyes narrow. “So…you’re here with Ruslan Smirnov. I thought you were done with ‘our world,’ Emma. What happened?”
Shit.
“You know him?” A twist in my gut; I realize I’ve been living in a sort of bliss up until now, able to pretend that maybe Ruslan isn’t as bad as he has to be to run an underground crime organization in California.
“Know of him.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Emma, do you understand who he is?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “Unfortunately.”
Her expression darkens. “Then you know Andrei’s his half-brother. And that Ruslan hasn’t been in Colorado for…”
“Almost ten years,” I murmur, my brain kicking into overdrive, cataloging facts. Details. Things I’ve been trying to ignore.
I glance toward the main gallery where Rus now stands surrounded by museum board members like some elegant criminal king.
Ryder studies me carefully for a long moment before speaking again. “You know Andrei basically chased him out of Colorado, right?”
And then it hits me: this is an opportunity. On the off chance that Ruslan Smirnov decides not to hold up his end of the bargain, I may be able to hold some leverage against him. So I play dumb to learn more about this man I’m temporarily tied to.
“What?”
“That’s been the rumor for years.” Ryder shrugs lightly. “After their mother died, things got ugly between them. Power struggles. Business fights. Family problems. Depends on who you ask.”
A strange heaviness settles in my chest. I glance across the room, thinking of the gardens and how they softened him.
“And he’d already lost his dad at that point.” The words come out quiet. Not really meant for Ryder to catch, but of course she does.
“You sound sympathetic,” she notes carefully.
“I’m not. It’s just I don’t agree with the kind of man Ruslan has become, but obviously Andrei needs to be put in his place. Someone like him shouldn’t be in a position of real power.”
Ryder looks amused, and I realize that her definition of the people in “real power” probably differs from mine.
The reality is that Ruslan is still dangerous. Still involved in things I probably don’t even want to know about. I’ve overheard enough conversations in Russian to understand that much.
But understanding someone and excusing them are different things.
Aren’t they?
“I just…” I exhale slowly. “I can understand wanting revenge.”
Ryder’s eyes sharpen immediately. “That’s dangerous territory.”
Tell me about it.
Across the museum, Rus turns slightly and finds me instantly despite the crowd between us. His gaze flicks briefly to Ryder, cool and assessing, before returning to me. Then he starts walking.
Striding.
Eyes locked on mine in a way that makes my heart thud and my legs weak.
One moment Ryder is leaning casually beside me beneath a massive abstract sculpture, and the next Ruslan appears at my side like something summoned. His hand settles low against my back automatically, fingers warm through the fabric of my dress.
His pale eyes move over Ryder first, cool and assessing beneath the museum lights. “You know each other.”
Not a question.
Ryder smiles slowly, entirely too amused by the situation. “Miami.”
Something unreadable flickers briefly across Ruslan’s face at that single word before his attention returns to me. Confusion, I think, because if he’s kept up his end of the bargain, he knows nothing about Miami.
“You disappeared,” he chides quietly, a warning in his voice like molten chocolate.
“I was standing twenty feet away.”
“And yet.”
The comment should irritate me. Instead, heat creeps embarrassingly into my face. Ryder notices immediately.
A low laugh escapes her as she looks between us. “You two look good together.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
Ruslan’s thumb brushes once against the back of my waist, like he enjoys my embarrassment entirely too much.
Ryder only grows more entertained. “No, seriously. It’s disgusting.”
“You’re being very dramatic.”
“She means sexually tense,” Rus says calmly.
I nearly choke on air. Ryder bursts out laughing.
“There he is,” she says, pointing lightly toward him. “That’s the exact Bratva bluntness I’ve grown to love in my own husband.”
“Bluntness?” I repeat weakly.
She waves one hand vaguely between us. “The tailored suits. The scary eye contact. The criminal charisma. They all act like they walked out of some luxury cologne ad while threatening violence.”
Against my will, I glance at Ruslan. That’s a mistake. He looks too good in the tux, tempting and lethal and expensive all at once.
Beautiful and terrifying.
Unfortunately, both things can apparently exist at once.
Rus notices me looking, and one corner of his mouth lifts slightly, smug. I immediately look away.
Ryder catches the entire exchange with visible delight. “Yeah,” she says knowingly. “Exactly like that.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Happened to me, too, girl. You might as well stop trying to resist.”
Heat floods my face harder. “This conversation is awful.”
“It’s honest,” Ryder counters.
Ruslan looks entirely unbothered by any of this. If anything, he seems calmer than he did earlier, some of the sharpness in him easing now that he’s standing beside me again. I think back to what he said the other day…that I make him calmer.
It shouldn’t make me feel good. Shouldn’t make me soften toward him.
Ryder’s expression softens unexpectedly as she studies me for a moment. Then she says quietly, “You look alive again.”
The comment catches me completely off guard.
“What?”
She shrugs lightly, but there’s something gentler beneath it now. “Back in Miami, you looked exhausted all the time. Like you were surviving instead of living. Especially at my father’s trial.”
The words settle uncomfortably deep inside my chest. Because she’s right.
I think about the last two years. The FBI disaster. Andrei. Running. Hiding. Failing. Existing from one disaster to the next while slowly convincing myself my life was already over.
Then somehow, I ended up here.
Ruslan’s hand remains steady against my back, grounding and dangerous all at once. Around us, the charity gala continues glittering beneath museum lights while reporters chase Andrei and Victoria through another room.
A normal life waits over there, or at least the semblance of one: respect, justice, strength.
Yet standing here beside Ryder and Ruslan feels strangely more honest, more real.
Which says deeply concerning things about my current life choices.
Ryder studies me one last time before giving me a faint smile. “Just be careful, Emma.”
I glance sideways at Ruslan. Too late for that.
What unsettles me most is realizing that these people: the criminals, liars, the dangerous men wrapped in expensive fabric. They seem happier for me than my own family has been in years.