Page 68 of Ivory Ashes

“Nothing. Everything.” I chuckle. “It’s like Silly Putty from when we were kids. Did you ever play with that stuff?”

“I didn’t play with anything,” he admits. “There wasn’t time.”

“Here we go. The appetizers haven’t even come out yet and I’m already learning shocking things about you.” I grab my drink and take a sip. I’m no wine connoisseur, but even I know it’s expensive. I plan to drink half a bottle, at least, if only to quiet down the nagging thoughts in my head. “What were you so busy doing that you didn’t have time to play when you were a kid?”

“You grew up in the mafia. It’s not so different from my world. You know what it’s like.”

“I grew up the only daughter of a don,” I remind him. “I have no idea what it’s like to grow up the second son of a pakhan. So, what was it like?”

Mikhail considers it for a second and then meets my eyes. “Bloody.”

It doesn’t have the same ring of amusement as the joke about killing the couple in the alley did. Probably because it’s not a joke.

“Huh,” I murmur. “Maybe our experiences weren’t so different, after all.”

I raise my glass for the toast I missed earlier. Mikhail dips his chin and clinks his glass against mine.

The waitress pops in and out every so often to deliver different courses, but otherwise, we are left alone. Large gas heating lamps burn in a circle around the rooftop, insulating us from the chilly evening. Still, goosebumps bloom up and down my arms when the wind blows.

“Cold?” Mikhail asks.

I start to refuse, but he is already standing up and slipping out of his jacket. He drops it over my shoulders and I almost moan at the residual warmth of his body. The scent of cedar and mint swirls around me. If I stole this jacket and sold it to some perfumer somewhere, I’d make a fortune.

“Thanks.” I pull the sleeves more tightly around me. “It’s a nice night, but I always run cold. My dad always said I get that from my mom. He said she shook like a scared little chihuahua the entire time he knew her.”

Of course, she could have been shaking out of fear. Being married to a man who screamed at her every time another man even looked her direction, like it was her fault, couldn’t have been good for her health.

It’s probably why her heart stopped when she was only forty-five.

Or maybe he killed her.

I’ve never worked out which one, but after what my father did to Matteo, I wouldn’t put anything past him.

“She died when you were little, didn’t she?”

I only smile because I’m so surprised he knows anything at all about my life. “How do you know that?”

“You were engaged to my brother for six months. I got bored at all those godawful parties and fundraisers.”

“So you asked around about me?” That shouldn’t send a swirl of excitement through me, but it does.

“I overheard other people talking about you,” he counters. “It was better than listening to people kiss Trofim’s ass, so I tuned in.”

“Glad my trauma caught your interest. That’s what dead moms are for, after all: party chatter.”

“Unless you're my father,” Mikhail retorts, “and then dead moms are only around so you can blame them for all the bad behavior of your sons.”

I knew Trofim’s mom wasn’t in the picture when we were engaged. All of the conversations about our union happened between his father and mine. It was a room full of men hashing out my romantic future without a female voice in sight. But Trofim never talked about her, and I didn’t care enough about him to ask.

“What happened to your mom?” I ask softly.

“She married my father.”

It’s the only answer Mikhail offers and I can tell it’s all I’m going to get.

“Well, if we succeed in being civil, it’ll be the first halfway decent marriage I’ve ever seen up close,” I admit.

Something I don’t understand flickers across Mikhail’s face before he schools his features. “Up close, every marriage is miserable.”

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