Page 68 of 10 Days to Ruin

Through my windows, New York blurs into a smear of asphalt and steel—but all I see isher.

Ariel,sprawled on that table, defiance and desire warring in her eyes. Always fighting. Always running. Always, always lying.

I tell myself it’s the untruths that have me so pissed off all of the sudden. The audacity to lie right to my face, again and again.

But that’s not really it, is it? It’s not that she isn’t telling me the truth; it’s that Iwanther to, so fucking badly.

I want to break her apart and see what makes her tick. No—I want her to beg me to do that. No, no, not that, either—I want her to show me voluntarily. That’s conquering of a sort, isn’t it? If she offered herself to me of her own free will, that’s winning, right?

Fucking hell. We’re barely a quarter of the way into this little probationary period and I’m already losing my goddamn mind.

Ten days.The number throbs in my skull like a bad hangover. It was supposed to be a speed bump at worst. Ten little days to turn a feisty brat into a simpering doll. I’ve done far more with far less.

But this… this shit is turning out to be far more complicated than it ever should’ve been.

Fuck knows there’s plenty else that needs my attention. I should do the rounds of my territory. Should check the shipment from Odessa, interrogate the crew, remind them what happens to men who get sloppy.

But the thought of barking orders, of bloodstains on concrete, of business as usual—it curdles in my gut. I don’t have the patience for that shit right now.

That’s fortunate. Because, without meaning to, I’ve driven to Zoya’s.

The restaurant’s deliberately old school sign flickers, a middle finger to the sleek sushi bars and overpriced bistros gentrifying the block. I’ll protect that sign, this place, with my last breath. My mother’s laugh lives in these walls. Her ghost lingers in the flour-dusted counters, the dented pots, the stubborn refusal to die.

Zoya is at the register, counting cash with her one good eye. She doesn’t look up when the bell jingles. “Sashenka. You look like hell.”

“You’re a vision, too, old woman.”

She snorts, slamming the cash drawer shut. “Flattery will get you far with most women. Not me, though.” But for all her tough talk, she’s already shuffling toward the kitchen, waving her cane at a booth. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”

The place is empty—it’s the 2 P.M. lull—so I slump into the same booth I hid under as a kid, back when I was still dodging my father’s drunken backhands. The wood underside bears the knife marks where I carved my initials at fourteen, drunk on stolen vodka and rage.

Zoya returns with a chipped teapot and two glasses. She sets them down, fills both. “Drink.”

The tea is bitter, brewed strong enough to raise ghosts. Just how I like it. She watches me swallow, her milky eye narrowing. “So. The girl.”

“Who said anything about the girl?”

She points a withered finger right between my eyes. “Your face tells me everything I need to know. You’re letting her under your skin.”

“I’m not letting her do anything.”

“Akh, spare me the bullshit,malchik. I saw how you looked at her when you brought her here.” She stabs that bony finger at my chest. “Heard your heart goingpitter-patter, too. You’re like a boy who found a stray pup and doesn’t know whether to kick it or keep it.”

My grip tightens on the cup until some of the tea sloshes over the edge. Steam rises from the puddle. “She’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”

Zoya leans in. “Your father said the same about your mother. Look how that ended.”

The mention of him is a match to gasoline. I’m on my feet before I realize it, chair screeching. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t remind you that love isn’t a weakness?” She stands, too, trembling but relentless. “Your mother—Nataliya—she was strength itself. Soft hands, sharp mind. She kneaded dough while your father kneaded corpses. And you…” Her cane taps my shin, hard enough to bruise. “You’reherson. Not his.”

The air’s too thick. The walls are too close. I stride to the kitchen, needing space, but her voice follows.

“You think closing your heart makes you safe? Makes you strong?” She laughs, a dry, hacking sound. “All it does is make you alone.”

I brace myself against the stainless steel counter, head bowed. The kitchen smells of dill and burnt sugar—my mother’s perfume. Her voice still whispers in the hum of the fridge, in the drip of the leaky faucet.

Moy malchik. My brave boy.

---