Page 42 of Cashmere Cruelty

… yet.

“Thank you,” I say uncertainly, still not sure if I’m about to suffer death by Dijon.

Then we eat.

According to the menu, the dish that made me dizzy with its heavenly scent is something calledtomato consomméwithsmoked ricotta tortelli.The taste is delicate and delicious, unlike anything I’ve ever eaten. Is this what it feels like to be rich?

“Is the food to your liking?” Matvey asks in his deep, rumbling voice.

Is rain wet and the Earth round?“It’s amazing,” I answer sincerely. “My go-to dinner is usually boxed mac-and-cheese, so this is definitely new.”

Matvey looks at me with pity. “You… cook, then?”

“Store-bought,” I clarify.

He cringes.

For some reason, that’s ridiculously funny to me: Matvey Groza, scandalized by the eating habits of the common folk. Without realizing it, I let out a laugh. “I know, I know. Not exactly worthy of a Michelin star, am I?”

Matvey shrugs. “Everyone’s got their talents. You’re a decent tailor, at least.”

“Just ‘decent’?”

“Your professionalism leaves something to be desired.”

“Hey!”The nerve of this guy!“It’s not like I’m used to customers wanting to tie me up,” I mumble, feeling the urge to sink into the floor.

“I find that very hard to believe.”

Forget the floor. I’d like to sink into the core of the Earth, pretty please.

The second course—because this meal has actualcourses, apparently, as opposed to me just refilling my bowl with some more cheesy Kraft goodness—is duck confit. I eye the side of crispy potatoes and cauliflower gratin, and my mouth starts watering.

“So,” I say, trying to at least pretend this fancy food hasn’t hypnotized me completely, “what’s your talent, then?”

Matvey takes a sip of his wine. I’m almost jealous—that must go spectacularly with the meat. “I’m a man of many talents, April.”

“First of all,vomit.Secondly, that’s cheating. Answer the question.”

The corner of his lip twitches. Wait, am I making the ice man laugh? Someone give me a Nobel Prize. “Should I just pick one, then?”

“Yes. And being good at mafia-whatever doesn’t count.”

“Bratva,” Matvey corrects. “And if that doesn’t count, then…”

He looks at me intensely. I can feel heat rising to my cheeks. Then his gaze moves to my belly, and my face catches fire.He’s not implying what I think he is, right? He’s not saying his talentis?—

“I guess I consider myself a family man.”

Thank God.

“Is that so?” I mumble around a forkful of duck. If stuffing my face ungracefully is what it takes to keep my stupid mouth from voicing my embarrassing thoughts, then so be it. I’ll make the sacrifice.

“Mm,” he hums in response. “‘Bratva’means ‘brotherhood.’ It’s not a family, not by any means—but it’s the closest thing you can get without blood in the mix.”

“So like a found family?” I perk up. Finally, a topic I can relate to.

“There’s no such thing.”

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