Page 7 of Used By the Bratva

“That's perfect.” I look around at the other people eating and talking to each other, the low murmur of their voices filling the room. “I’ve never been anywhere like this.”

“Well, you sure know how to dress perfectly for it. You look very … um … classy, very sophisticated. You fit right in with these wealthy people here.” He stumbles over his words, no doubt without much thought.

“You don't need much money to dress well. It’s the effort that counts.” I'm trying not to sound too cynical. Somehow, I have the feeling that this date won't end well.

Is it me, or is he just a young, spoiled, rich brat with few brains?

Tyler smiles, reaches across the table, and puts his hand on mine. “You are beautiful. That’s all I wanted to say. And that’s an observation.”

He leans forward and takes the menu from me again. “I've already ordered. We’ll have the lobster ravioli and scallops as an appetizer.”

I give him a friendly smile as I don't want to ruin the date by telling him I don’t like seafood. “Thank you. That sounds delicious.”

For one night, I can suck it and eat the food. If there will be another date, I will be the one who gets to choose where we eat.

Tyler reaches for the bottle of wine beside him. “Want some?”

“No. Thank you.” I reach for my glass of water instead and take a sip. “I can’t officially drink yet. I won't be twenty-one for a few weeks.”

Even though I’ve been drinking since I was eighteen, there’s a little voice in the back of my head that tells me drinking with Tyler would be a mistake.

Something strange flashes in his gaze, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “So, what brought you to New York? Was it the club scene? We have some of the best in the world.”

I shake my head. “No.”

The corner of his mouth tilts. “Of course you don't. If we're honest, you don’t seem like that kind of girl. If you’re not here to party, why did you move to the other side of the world?”

“To find out who I am.” This is not the exact truth, but part of it. “The home I had in Russia is nice, but the art schools here are second to none, and since we’re being honest, I'm looking for someone here, though I don’t know how long it will take me to find him.”

“You know, I have connections; I could help you.” He sits back in his seat as the waiter appears with our appetizers.

I look down at the scallop on the plate. It sits in a kind of pale-yellow sauce. My stomach turns at the thought of eating it, but I keep my smile and pick up my knife and fork.

As I slice off a tiny sliver of the scallop, Tyler digs into his food, eating it in one bite before returning his attention to me. “Who’re you looking for?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. I only got a name from my mother, but I’ve never met the man.”

“What’s his name?” Tyler sips his wine, his gaze turning a little hazy.

I glance at the half-full bottle as he tops up his glass again. “Boris Petrovsky.”

Tyler grumbles and downs his glass in one gulp. “I’m going to ask around. A few people I know might be able to find out something about him.”

“I have tried to look into Boris.” I wash down the taste of scallops with a big gulp of water. “When I searched, I found nothing. A name mentioned in a few obituaries as a surviving family member, but nothing else.”

Even though he says he has connections, I hold back from telling Tyler about my adoption. Maybe he could find the records on it, which I couldn’t, but I tried for years to find anything about my childhood in New York. But if he can find Boris for me, maybe I'll finally get the answers I’ve sought.

We fall silent for a few minutes as we finish our appetizers, waiting for the waiter to return and whisk away the plates.

After he does, Tyler reaches across the table again and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You're really beautiful, you know that? Have you ever thought about modeling for a figure painting class?”

I almost spit out the mouthful of water and take a second to suppress my initial reaction. “No. I don’t think being naked in front of a room full of strangers is for me.”

He gives me that charming smile, but this time, the butterflies don’t erupt the way they have. “Well, maybe you could be my private muse.”

My laughter is awkward and hangs like a fragile veil covering my discomfort. I don’t know how to react. We've barely met, and he’s already asking me to get naked for him. As much as I like it when a man is straightforward and in control, something in my guts feels weird, not just the scallops. Red flags are fluttering in my head. I’m open to sex on a first date, but this guy, as handsome and wealthy as he is, has terrible manners. He makes me feel like what he thinks I am—a desperate foreigner in a foreign city, trying to get laid.

Before I can register what he is doing, he pushes his chair to my side of the table and puts his arm around my shoulders. His fingers graze my bare collarbone as he leans closer to me.

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