Page 87 of Bratva Knight

What the fuck is this?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tatiana Andreeva

Oh,thiswassucha bad idea.

I looked across the table at Steve, seriously regretting my decision to do my dad this stupid favour. It wasn’t a date. I made that very,veryclear to Steve when he messaged me.

Steve. I internally scoffed, taking a sip of my water. What kind of a name was “Steve” anyway? He was everything my dad said he was. Tall. Handsome. Funny. He had light, curly blonde hair, deep brown eyes and a pretty face. He wore a nice, plain suit with no tie. The open collar was a good look on him.

But you know someone who looks better, don’t you?

I shouldn’t feel guilty. I knew that. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Thiswasn’ta date. I told him that. I told my dad that. I toldmyselfthat.

Yet, as I sat across from Steve in this nice, somewhat fancy restaurant, I couldn’t help but feel guilty anyway. If the situation was reversed—if it was Nikolai sitting here having dinner with another woman—I’d bepissed. No matter what the circumstances were.

I’m such a fucking hypocrite.

When Steve first messaged me, I didn’t even respond. At least, not right away. I ignored it, hoping that if I just pretended I didn’t get it or something, I could just avoid the whole thing.

Then he messaged again, cracking a joke about how he’d never been ghosted by someone he’s never met before. It made me laugh…so I replied.

He asked me to go to lunch (which, if I was being honest, I would have much preferred, because then it didn’t seem so date-y). But I had day shifts at the café with Belinda to complete my training that I absolutely could not say no to. Why? Because all I could afford for dinner the last two nights were fish sticks.

Fish. Sticks.

Making it on your own washard. If I wasn’t so determined to show not only myself but everyone else that I could do it, I would have caved and used my emergency credit card.

Light chatter, theclinkof utensils and the smell of delicious Italian food swirled around me.L’ultima Cenawas a beautiful restaurant. It had a loud, fun atmosphere, a cute, rustic vibe, and was entirely owned and operated by La Cosa Nostra. It was one of the reasons why I’d chosen it. It meant that, if I wanted to stab Steve with a fork for being too handsy, I could. The entire place was made up of mafia people, from the waitstaff, to the chefs, to the security guards in the back. It pretty much guaranteed that no one would bat an eye if a little blood was spilled. I wouldn’t even be surprised if most of the other patrons were mafia, too. I recognised a few of Arturo’s soldiers that I’d seen at his house, sitting at the tables when I walked in.

I was pretty sure the whole place was a front, a business they used to funnel their dirty money into and turn it into clean, legal tender. I knew they owned a variety of different businesses for that very reason. The IRS was a bitch.

“So, your dad mentioned you’re a fashion major?” Steve casually flipped through the sleek, black menu in his hands, being nice enough to ignore the awkwardness buzzing between us. We’d been making awkward small talk since the moment we sat down.

We’d covered the basics: our names, ages, a few comments about the weather. You’d think with every question we asked, it would slowly become less uncomfortable…but it didn’t. If anything, it got worse.

“Yeah. Well, almost. My classes haven’t started yet.” There was a moment of silence. “Are you in New York for business? Or just visiting?”

“A little bit of both. My father wants to move to the US, so I’m here doing a little bit of scouting, trying to find a place.”

“Oh. Nice.”

A waiter came over and he ordered a bottle of wine and some appetizers for the table.

“This is a nice place,” he commented, looking around the room. “Have you been here before?”

“No, but I’ve heard good things.” I couldn’t really come out and tell him I’d chosen it so that I could kill him if need be.

He waited, like he was expecting me to say more. When I didn’t, he gave me a friendly smile. “You don’t really want to be here, do you?”

I laughed awkwardly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Kind of,” he laughed along with me and I felt myself start to slowly relax. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here, if you didn’t want to come?”

“Because my dad is a meddler, and he’s hoping I’ll like you and forget all about my ex.”

“Ah, meddlesome parents. I know a thing or two about those.”

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