Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I didn't even have to sniff the wine. As soon as I lifted the glass to my lips, my senses were overwhelmed with the scent of sweet berries, cherries, and something dark and earthy I couldn't quite name. Tobacco maybe?
The first sip was like an explosion in my mouth, and my eyes slid closed in appreciation.
It was dark, sensual, and the different flavors played across my tongue. Sweet, then bitter, then something rich that lingered long after I swallowed.
"Do you approve?" Artem asked, his hand on my shoulder.
"It's delicious," I said, as his hand dropped to slide across my bare back.
Sending tiny fissures of nerves over my skin, as he poured more wine into my glass and then one for himself as well.
"Tonight we are having prime rib, if that is okay?"
"I'm not hungry," I said. I was being a brat, and I could feel his irritation radiating from him like heat, but I couldn't fall for this.
"You have to eat," he said. His words didn't hold the usual edge of a demand; they were soft and soothing.
I nodded and took another sip of my wine, letting the liquid courage strengthen my resolve not to be swayed.
Artem lifted the large silver dome in the middle of the table, releasing a plume of steam that rose into the air. It smelled amazing, like butter and herbs, and made my stomach growl in spite of myself.
He picked up the plate in front of me and grabbed the silver tongs that were placed next to the platter. "What temperature do you prefer?"
He plated my food, asking what I preferred at every step, choosing the best pieces for me before he moved on to his own.
If any other man had done this, I'd be looking for a reason, some motive. The voice of reason and logic screamed inside my head. She demanded I see this for the manipulation it clearly was, a tactic to buy me. To persuade me into thinking that staying here was my idea.
He was stealing my life from me, and I was willingly going along with him when I should be fighting.
Too bad that voice was being drowned out by the thunder of my racing heart, telling me that there was more to this. More to him. All I had to do was look for it and recognize it.
He took his seat and waited for me to take the first bite. It was amazing, the meat perfectly tender and so juicy I groaned with pleasure. The flavor was rich and complex.
His face twisted into a grin, the candlelight softening his usually harsh features.
"Does that mean you like it?"
"It's so good. I don't know who made this, but you aren't paying them enough."
Artem let out a laugh that sounded almost boyish. It was still deep and a little husky, but there was joy there. Genuine happiness.
"That is the best compliment I have ever received. I made this."
"You cook?" I almost dropped my fork.
Men in this life didn't cook.
That would upset the delicate gender roles they were so fond of in mafia life.
"I do, when I have the time," he said, slicing into his own piece of meat. "If this were a different life, I'd have liked to have been a head chef. Working in a large kitchen in Russia cooking traditional dishes with modern twists and techniques, collecting Michelin stars."
I leaned back in my chair and tried to picture that as I chewed what was the most incredible potato anyone had ever eaten. I could see him at the pass of a bustling kitchen, his presence commanding respect without a word.
"I can see that. You, running a kitchen with militant control. Demanding perfection from everyone, even the customers."
He let out a low chuckle, taking my comment in the teasing way it was intended, as he took another sip of wine.
It was the best meal of my life, and not just because the food was incredible.
Over dinner, we talked. Really talked.
He told me about how he had met Dima, and what he thought. I shared a few childhood memories. He even asked me why I wanted to study Political Science.
This dinner was everything our first dinner wasn't.
There were no servers scared of him, no bellboys keeping their heads low, reminding him who he was. No talk of creepy professors or drunk frat boys.
The dinner would have been perfect, except no matter what we talked about, there was still this tension that I wouldn't let go of. I had to constantly remind myself who he was and what he did.
There were little reminders everywhere. The shifting of the light under the door as the security guards on the other side moved. The way his gestures just seemed a little too calculated.
At first I thought they were to disarm me, but the longer the night went on, the more it seemed like he was trying to show interest, to show affection, and they weren't calculated as much as unpracticed.