Page 22 of Hating the Bratva

“Get dressed. We’ll go out.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” What if someone saw us? It’s bad enough that I’m living with another man, but it would be even worse if it looks like I’m going on dates with him.

“Are you hungry or not?”

I’m starving, so instead of arguing, I walk upstairs and quickly change. I don’t know where we’re going, so I throw on a pair of tight jeans, a nice top, and some sandals. It’s casual, but the top is also dressy enough to fit in anywhere.

When I come back downstairs, Alek is standing by the door, typing away on his phone.

“Ready?” he says, finally looking up. I don’t miss the way his eyes roam over my outfit.

“Yeah.” I follow him out of the house and to the black Range Rover. I’ve only seen him drive the Range Rover or the BMW, but I have the feeling that there are at least a couple of other cars in the garage. I slide into the black seat, glad that it’s still warm. The weather is changing fast, and it won’t be long before the snow covers the roads. We barely get a fall in Boston. It’s straight from summer to winter, and every year I hate it. I love the heat and being able to spend my days outside. We don’t say anything during the ride until he pulls up to a small hole-in-the-wall.

“What is this?” I ask, scrunching up my nose.

He smiles. “You like Mexican food, Bunny?”

“Yeah…”

“This is the best place in the city.”

I get out of the car, and we step into the restaurant. It’s packed inside, and I’m surprised that Alek could find a parking spot out front. Waitresses walk quickly from one side of the restaurant to the other. I can hear the cooks yelling in the kitchen. There’s no host at the stand, and I look up at Alek with a raised eyebrow.

He chuckles. “Trust me. You’ve never had Mexican food like this before.”

He waves down one of the waitresses, who briskly walks past us.

“Give me just a moment, and I’ll get you seated. Two?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She dashes off to drop off the plate in her hand at a table and then comes back. She wipes her hands on her apron before scanning the seating chart in front of her.

“We have a table outside on the patio. Does that work?”

“That’s fine,” he assures her. She grabs two menus and leads us through an open door to a small patio. There are only three tables out here, and one of them is full. The noise of the restaurant fades as we sit down at our table. I’m grateful that we can sit out here, away from the chaos.

“I’ll be back shortly,” the waitress says, placing the menus in front of us and going back inside.

“Is this where you take all your hot dates?” I tease, but once the words are out, I picture Alek on a date with someone else, and my heart takes a small hit.

He grabs the menu. “I didn’t realize how uppity you are.”

My mouth drops open. “I am not uppity!”

He laughs. “Your father has been a senator your whole life. You’re used to nice things. I get it.”

I frown. “Haven’t you been in”—I lower my voice—“ in the Bratva, your whole life? You’re used to money too.”

He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t officially join until I was eighteen, after I left Russia. I grew up poor…real poor, not America poor.”

My father grew up in Russia, too, but he doesn’t talk about it much.

The waitress comes back with two glasses of water with straws. She leaves again to get us some chips and salsa, so we have time to decide what we want.

“What was it like?” I ask.

“Hmm?” he asks, his eyes drifting up from the menu in front of him.

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