Page 82 of The Councilor

I heard a noise and turned around. I honestly think my heart stopped briefly. I’d seen my bride to be in jeans and sneakers so much, the fact she was wearing a red dress and heels shocked the hell out of me.

How many beautiful women had I seen and experienced in my years on this earth? Dozens, most dressed to the nines, prepared for a cocktail party or some other illustrious event. They’d had money and their attire had cost multiple thousands of dollars. I knew my fiancée had a trust fund waiting for her that had increased tenfold with the help of a wealth management team. She was worth multiple millions of dollars.

Getting early access had been dangled over her head to try to bring her back into the fold. She’d refused, including the typical allowance her father had provided. She still had two years to wait before she could decide for herself what to do with the money. That meant the beautiful, yet simple dress was likely off the rack from Bergman’s Basement or some other famous secondhand store.

Yet it only made her that much more beautiful. And natural. She was looking at me timidly, as if I wouldn’t like what I saw. Was she nuts? In my eyes, she was the most beautiful woman on the face of this earth.

I growled. “I gotta run.”

“Hot date?”

“In truth, yes.”

He was muttering under his breath, also laughing. “I’ll forward what I find tomorrow.”

“Good.” I slipped the phone into my pocket and headed toward her. “You look incredible.”

Raphaella turned in a full circle. “Since I managed to convince you to go out, I thought I’d look nice for a change.”

“News flash. You always look nice.”

“I found a place we could go.”

“Snooping already?” I teased.

She gave me a saucy look. “I wanted to know what I was getting myself in the middle of. I’m picky with food.”

“Russkaya yeda—eto dykhaniye zhizni,” I told her. “Russian food is the breath of life. My grandmother used to say that.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll be the judge of that.”

“What restaurant?”

“Skorvorodka.”

“Not a bad pronunciation.” The choice would work, not too far away while being smaller and easier to deal with. Plus, at one time I’d known the owner.

“Are you game?”

“Mmmm… For more than you know.”

“Good because it’s time we have a little fun. And trust me. I can show you how.”

Of that I had no doubt.

Raphaella

I was an Italian girl. What did I think I was doing going to a Russian restaurant? And if anyone heard my name, I would certainly have an additional target or ten placed on my back.

In this place, my father was a hated man. At least, so he’d told me when he’d warned me never to be caught in Brighton Beach.

Well, dear old Daddy could no longer rule my life.

Plus, given the location of the restaurant, which was nestled in a strip of various businesses, we’d been required to walk severalblocks from where Ivan had parked the SUV. It was so weird to be chauffeured around everywhere, but I had to admit I could get used to it. Night had fallen. Unlike the evening before, the stars were twinkling in the sky. There were varied white Christmas-style lights strung in windows and around doors of several of the businesses.

Two things struck me as we walked arm in arm down the street. One was the fact there were alcoves everywhere with people sitting by small tables sipping coffee or their alcoholic beverage. More important, every single time we passed a group, they’d stood, greeting Aleksander as if he was a long-lost friend.

Of course, I couldn’t understand a word given they were speaking Russian, but I didn’t need to in order to know whatever was being said was out of respect.

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