Page 46 of Seduction (Wicked Vows)

My father laughs too loudly and snaps his fingers at the waitress. I flinch at the obvious rudeness. “Child,” he says with a laugh. “Vera, my love, look at you. You’re a full-grown woman. An adult. I have no children. You’re my daughter, yes, but a man of my stature and age has the privilege of associating with whomever he chooses.”

I saw how the infidelity wore my mother down. I witnessed how he would gallivant around the world with his mistress of the week, but should she ever do the same, her punishment would be severe and swift. There was the double-standard as a Bratva wife; don’t expect fidelity from your husband, but a woman was expected to bear the ring and name of one man for life, no matter how philandering he might be.

“Please,” I say in a soft voice, not wanting to draw attention to us. “You do what you must, but there’s no need for me to meet whoever she is. Whether you like it or not, I’m faithful to my mother.”

I down the rest of my wine. My father’s face colors and his fingers tighten around his wine glass.

“I’ll have you remember you’re my daughter, Vera Ivanova,” he says in that chilling voice that, even now, never fails to send an unwanted shiver down the back of my neck. It was the voice he used before he broke things or lashed out.

He wouldn’t do that here, would he?

“I know exactly who I am,” I counter, leaning closer to him. “I’ll ask that you do the same.”

My father reaches a hand out for me, but Markov intercepts him.

“Sir, this is neither the time nor place for a show of power,” he says in that quiet way of his. Since he spoke in English, the words were for my ears as well. “If our presence has upset you, I’m happy to escort Vera back to her apartment, and you can give my aunt my best wishes.”

My father stares at Markov’s hand on his wrist and seems to come to his senses. Markov is younger and stronger than my father, but my father outranks him. However, Markov has a bargaining chip. His aunt is my father’s lover. Markov has the ability to pull some strings.

My father smiles and nods. “Yes, yes, of course,” he says, as if he wasn’t just on the verge of hurting me or making an absolute fool of himself. Markov releases my father before he places a reassuring hand on my thigh. I squirm uncomfortably because I know if my father saw his hand under the table, no amount of wish to save face would save Markov.

I veer the conversation back to my father’s pursuits. He talks at length about the subject, going on and on about infrastructure, cost-effective investing strategies, and political alliances that would benefit international relations while I strategically remove all the onions off my salad. Though I’m bored to tears, I can tell Markov listens keenly.

“Fascinating,” I say, giving my father the same energy of bullshit disinterest he gave me, but it’s completely lost on him and only serves to encourage him to blather on. Markov’s eyes twinkle at me, though, and he gives me that almost quirk of the lips. He’s getting kissed thoroughly for that when we’re alone after he tells me what they discussed in Russian.

I’m grateful when the rest of our food arrives and happily busy myself with the house special: a smoked starlet, a prized Russian fish, served with caviar cream and roasted root vegetables and potato medley, thinly sliced and crispy, sprinkled with sea salt. Alongside the vegetables is an arrangement of edible flowers. Markov digs into a steak the size of Manhattan with gusto.

The longer our dinner takes, the more my father drinks. I don’t remember him drinking so heavily, but I’ve hardly seen him in recent years. It seems Moscow brings out the ‘best’ in him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” my father says. “I must take this call. I’ll return shortly.”

He steps away from the table, and I become aware of the three men in suits sitting at a table adjacent to ours, their eyes on our table. One of them rises and approaches.

“Shevchenko,” one says, extending a hand to Markov. “We’ve exchanged texts. I won’t stay long but wanted to make your acquaintance in person. Thank you for your regular updates and dedication to your work.” He bows his head and takes his leave.

My heartbeat quickens. I was only moments away from having a private conversation with Markov. Letting our masks come down for a moment while my father was away from the table. How could I completely forget that my father always brought with him a small group of guards?

Markov looks down at his phone, his fingers flying over the keys. He seems preoccupied, but I’m not sure why. I don’t think he likes being here any more than I do.

Finally, before my father returns, he places his phone down on the table and leans closer to me. “Listen to me, Vera.”

Now, this is the real Markov. The one I know behind closed doors. The one that holds me when we climb into bed at night. Who pays attention when I talk about my studies and experiences. And the one who makes my heart turn in my chest with a mere look.

“Mmm?” I sip my wine, my hand slightly trembling.

“He’s nothing to you,” he says in a whisper of a voice. He might as well be telling me about when we’re going to leave and going over our schedule for the following day. “He’s never been. I can see how disappointed you are in him, and it’s only natural. He has no idea who you are, but I will always tell you with confidence. It’s his loss.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply but goes back to his phone, detached once again, as my father joins us.

I swallow the lump in my throat and take another sip of wine.

“Your aunt says you haven’t been in touch with her, Markov.”

“I am so sorry,” Markov replies. “Vera’s schedule has me quite occupied as I assist her, and I’ve recently switched to a new phone. My contacts are still in the process of syncing. Please have her get in touch, and I will respond promptly. Also, express my gratitude to her for this opportunity she’s given me.” He shares a knowing glance with me while my father is preoccupied with the waitress, asking for the dessert menu. “Being back in the city has been a profound experience.”

His reference to the city must be about Moscow...right? Surely, he’s referring to the geographical and cultural significance of being here. It seems too daring for him to subtly thank my father for being involved with. . . me?

Profound experience.

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