Page 15 of Brutal Promise

“Mm. What’s for breakfast?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. I can make eggs and toast.”

“Perfect,” I reply, acting like I’m not impressed he can use a stove.

7

IZZY

Dmitry makes me another coffee and adds Godiva chocolate liqueur to it. The coffee is made with the press of a button. I wouldn’t be surprised to find an Italian barista living here, but then again, Dmitry is Russian. What do they drink when they’re not drinking vodka?

“Do you drink more tea in Russia than coffee?” I ask.

“About the same. Why?”

“Just curious,” I say. I’m perched on a stool, and even though it has back support, I prefer to put my elbows on the counter. My chin rests in my palms, and I study him with my eyes.

“Any other questions?” He turns and cracks eggs into a hot skillet while toast pops up from a toaster. He quickly butters the toast and returns to flip the eggs like a short-order cook.

“Nope.”

“Well, eat up,” he says, sliding the plate of food under my nose. I sit up and remove my elbows from the counter.

He remains standing, holding his plate in one hand, and passes me a fork with the other.

“Thanks.” I begin to eat. I’m starving. I burned through those paninis before we left the club.

“I have questions,” he says. His slight accent is seductive. I like the way the words surround me and make me feel like we’re more than acquaintances. He has a confident demeanor about him that melts me.

“What?” I scoop eggs into my mouth. The seasoning is perfect, and I sneak a peek at the spice bottles he used. Garlic and steak seasoning? I’ve never thought of using that on eggs.

“I don’t understand why you have that tattoo,” he says.

“I told you, it’s for my mom. It reminds me of her. She had a bird and a cage tattoo on her wrist. I mean, it is a pretty bird, it’s blue. Besides, everyone has tattoos nowadays.”

“I ask because the bird in a cage tattoo symbolizes women in the mafia. Our women are ours to protect, and we keep them in cages to keep them safe. Her tattoo implies she escaped her cage.” His eyes are as cold and hard as black ice. Damn, it looks like he’s ready to take my head off.Men.

I’m confused. My mother never told me the meaning of her tattoo.

“She was not the type to be involved with criminals. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and avoided attention. She bought her things at thrift stores because we didn’t have much, so she sacrificed for me. It’s pretty shitty that I didn’t grow up with both parents. I’d love to have siblings, a family. I long to feel like I belong,” I add in case he missed the point that my mother was different from the women he knows in the mafia.

Before Mom was killed in the car accident, she was involved with a long-term boyfriend and planned to marry. It’s a shame because I liked him and would have loved calling him Dad. He was a successful investor on Wall Street. He liked all the modern Irish bands and used to sing me old Irish songs his grandfather taught him. Mom would laugh at his singing, but I know she liked it.

I shrug. “Well, I like my bird. Does there need to be more to it?”

He looks up from his food, swallows, and says, “Yes.” His eyes sear into mine like hot pokers. He stands as he eats off a plate balanced on his hand.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?” I ask.

“I don’t understand this phrase.”

“Boxers,” I explain. “Stuck up your butt crack.”

He chokes on his food. After a cough, he speaks. “You Americans. Always so funny, eh?” He finishes his plate and puts it in a sink that looks like it’s never been used.

“Well, you have tattoos, too.”

“Yes, to cover scars and from a crazy trip to Miami with too much alcohol. But you’re not one to do something like that. You like order. Everything you do is planned.”

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