Page 71 of Sinful Promise

“Ah.” Irina also has a glass of red wine in her hand. “This is Dasha. Dasha, Francesca, my friend from Italy.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” I manage a tight smile.

“Dasha.” Francesca surprises me with a hug. I put my arms around her to play along with the charade of immediate friendship.

She does smell nice, like vanilla crème brûlée. Let’s hope she’s just as sweet as she smells. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she is close to thirty.

Francesca pulls back and stares at my earrings. “Those are stunning. Someone has good taste.”

I notice the ice on her earlobes and suspect they are the real deal, too.

We’re interrupted by a hostess carrying menus and follow her to a table near the water. Soft overhead lights make it feel more like an evening garden party than a restaurant. Maybe that’s because we’re off the Italian coast with the most magnificent unobstructed view of the Mediterranean Sea. Light waves lap against the nearby shoreline, and a cool breeze blows off the water. Irina hands me her wrap for my shoulders and promises I will warm up after some wine.

The wine flows around the table like water. I sip mine. It’s not sweet and has hints of licorice. It coats my lips, and I can’t help but take another sip. Warm ciabatta in a basket lined with a cloth napkin is placed on the table. The waitress pours olive oil into a saucer next to the basket.

Francesca takes a slice of the bread, breaks off a piece, and dips it into the oil. Interesting.

I follow the conversation. It flies around the table more quickly than I can keep up. Irina and Francesca are two peas in a pod. They sit close to one another, laughing at inside jokes. They remind me of the way Katsia and I act when we’re together.

I can’t miss the ring on Francesca’s finger. The diamond is so bright that it may as well be a lightbulb. Who and where is her husband? Alex said her home is in Florence, and I love listening to her when she speaks Italian. I’m curious as to how she fits into this cast of characters.

The waitress speaks English well, moving with alacrity as she drops off seafood appetizers.

“These are sea scallops.” Roman spears one and places it on my plate. “I think you will like them.”

“I’ll try.” I decide it’s too large for my mouth and choose to cut it with the butter knife. I’d rather go hungry than be seen eating like a farm animal.

The waitress brings another bottle of wine, and Roman refills our glasses. She also brings containers of fizzy water. Roman explains that it’s carbonated and famous in Italy.

Stuffed mussels are passed around, and Roman puts two on my plate. I’m beginning to worry I’ll be full by the time the main course is served.

I wait for Roman to eat one first. He picks up the shell, unties the string, and dumps the contents into his mouth. He chews and swallows.

I pick up a shell and inspect the inside. It’s meat and finely chopped tomatoes. I tentatively slide the contents into my mouth, mindful not to drip any on my dress. The flavor is heavenly. I chew and find the mussel. It’s meaty, not chewy. I swallow.

“It’s good, right?” Alex has been watching me. Roman, too, as they await my verdict.

“Yes, it is. Delicious! It’s going to be tough to go back to eating my boring potato dishes.” I wipe my mouth with a cloth napkin. I’d like another but need to save room for the next course.

“Yeah, you’re not getting food like this in Minsk,” Roman says, and Alex chuckles.

The waitress arrives to take our order for the main meal. We all order seafood dishes.

I glance around the room. All the tables are filled, and people are waiting outside. I feel guilty for taking so long to eat dinner. This multi-course meal takes hours. I hope the people in line get to eat before the restaurant closes.

I sip more wine, or as they call it,vino. I’m getting better at detecting the layers of flavor and enjoying the complexities of the wine. “I love Italy.”

“What’s there not to love?” Roman adds with a smirk, “I love it, too. I can’t wait to show you more places.”

Does that mean we have a future? The more Roman teaches me about sex and feeds me seafood delicacies, the harder it will be to leave him when this is over.

My dish of linguine with clams shows up. I stare at the purple octopus on Alex’s plate and decide I made the better choice. No way could I eat those scary-looking tentacles with all the suction cups.

I hear the wordsgalaandMonaco. From what I can tell, we’re still going. I have no idea how Roman plans to attend such a public event when we’re on a kill list.

For dessert, we share a chocolate ganache torte. After dinner, we leave with several bottles of wine. I hear the waitress tell Roman it’s made from grapes grown on the island.

We all walk back to the boat, including Francesca. Nobody tells me if she’s joining us for the rest of the journey or staying the night. As the outsider, I’m always the last to know what’s happening.

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