Page 52 of Ruthless Mafia Daddy

“I didn’t miss it. I’m taking you somewhere,” he said, squeezing my hand softly. “I’ve been meaning to take you for a long time, but I wanted to wait until you were fully recovered.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, excitement building inside me. Every time Mikhail has surprised me in the past, it always ended up being the most beautiful experience, and I had no doubt this would be any different. He let out a light chuckle at my excitement. “It’s nothing fancy, just something you wouldn’t stop talking about, and it reminded me of my early days in New York.”

Something I wouldn’t stop talking about that reminded him of his early days in New York? I racked through my head, searching for clues. I’ve been talking nonstop about a lot of things since I was confined to my bed. Everything suddenly seemed unnaturally interesting, and I wanted to do everything.

I recall making a case about how I wanted to be a wildlife photographer and get to capture nature in its raw form. Since we were at the heart of New York, I figured my short-lived photography dreams weren’t coming true any time soon. “I can’t think of anything.” I groaned, pulling my best puppy look at him. “My head is empty and filled at the same time. Just give me a clue already.”

“I told you it was nothing exciting. You’ll see, we’re almost there.” He replied, steering the car right, and my insides flipped. Watching Mikhail drive would always equal a thirst trap, and it did things to my lady parts. We finally came to a stop in front of a tall, black building with red and gold accents. It had intricate carvings on the wooden panels lining the door and window frames.

“Is this a Chinese restaurant?” I shrieked in excitement, my eyes darting between Mikhail and the structure. “Is it?” I repeated, practically bouncing on my seat.

“What do you think?” he smiled, unbuckling his seatbelt. He had become increasingly conscious of them since my accident and made sure they were always fastened before he started the car.

I recalled telling him during one of our movie nights that I had a Chinese phase when I was ten and had seen Mulan for the first time. I was shocked to discover he had never seenMulan, so I made him watch the animation. He grumbled about how he was a bit too old to be watching an animation the whole time but spent the days after the movie talking about how dumb Li Shang and the rest of the men were to not have noticed Mulan was a girl.

“Do I get to wear the traditional outfit too?” I queried as we made our way into the restaurant. I could feel the ten-year-old in me pushing to the surface.

“Unfortunately, this is not one of those restaurants, but the experience is pretty much the same. The service and the setting are quite traditional.” He replied, holding the door open for me.

Dim ambient lighting from the lanterns on the wall gave a warm, cozy vibe to the interior. The wooden floors and furniture added to the ambiance. There were a few pictures of Chinese landscapes and mythical creatures hanging on the wall.

“That’s Mushu over there,” I whispered, pointing at the picture of a red dragon across the room.

“Isn’t that a little too big to be Mushu?” he commented, observing the painting.

“Nonsense. Mushu grew—”

“Mr Ivanov?” A waitress appeared out of nowhere, interrupting my little speech.

Mikhail supplied a curt nod to her question, and she led us to our reservation.

The VIP rooms were completely different from the general eatery. There was a rectangular depression in the middle of the room where the table and the padded wooden chairs were arranged. In place of paintings, the walls were adorned with intricate carvings in Chinese, porcelain vases, and calligraphy scrolls hanging from the ceiling. We settled into the depression, and I was more than excited to fold my legs in a comfortable position.

“You said this reminds you of your early days in New York?” I inquired, heaping my plate with a second serving of kung pao chicken. It was my favorite amongst the elaborate spread of food on the table.

“Yes,” Mikhail replied, carefully dishing out the chow mein onto his plate. He was so good with the chopsticks that I found myself growing increasingly jealous of how he handled everything with ease while I had to request a fork.

“When I arrived in New York to make a name for myself, one different from my family legacy, I signed my first deal in this restaurant, in this very room,” he added casually. I listened with rapt attention as he recounted the night he had to pull every negotiation skill known to man to seal a deal, and what was even more impressive was that he was only twenty-four at the time.

“Woah,” I commented when he was done. “You know, I always thought this was a family business.”

“It will be. I’m building it with the intention of it getting passed down through generations like my ancestors before me. I can afford the life I have because someone thought to put things in order for those after him. It would be incredibly selfish of me not to leave things even better for my kids,” he replied, holding my gaze at the mention of the words kids.

I tore my gaze away, suddenly feeling claustrophobic from the weight of his eyes on me and the implications of his statement. My chest tightened, and I had to swallow twice to dislodge the knot in my chest. Even the chicken in my mouth suddenly tasted like cardboard. A loud beep from my phone came to my rescue, but my feeling of gratitude was immediately reverted when I saw the content of the message from Vivian. Father wants to meet with you at noon tomorrow. The universe had very impeccable timing.

“Everything good?” Mikhail asked, watching me closely.

“It’s fine,” I replied, tucking my phone into my purse. “I promised to help Viv with something today, and I lost track of time. I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.”

“And I thought I almost scared you off with my talk about kids and legacies.”

“You’d have to come up with worse to scare me away,” I replied, willing my smile to be as genuine as possible. It was becoming increasingly difficult to lie to him with every passing day, and I’ve been using my accident as an excuse not to supply Father with reasonable information for a while.

“Good. Cause you’re stuck with me,” he replied, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

Dinner continued over shared stories of childhood and experiences growing up. I tried my best to remain present but I couldn’t silence the voice in my head that kept calling me a liar and fraud. Not being able to stand the way he was looking at me or the excitement in his eyes when he spoke about the future, I made up a fake excuse about my headache slowly returning and had our food packed into takeout boxes.

CHAPTER 23

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