Page 57 of Sinful Promise

“I’ve known of him for years. He runs with a bad crowd, but I don’t see you as a follower. You’re an independent thinker with a moral compass.”

“Hm, well, I’m not so sure about that. I stayed home way too long. It was only by luck that I got out at all.”

“We all need luck now and again, don’t we?”

The chef is looking at me, and I realize he’s waiting for me to tell him what I want to eat. I recall how much I loved the lobster last night and want more of the same. I ask if it’s possible to have a lobster omelet. The chef says it’s not a problem, and he’ll make it with hollandaise sauce. I have no idea what that is, but I’m willing to try. I’ve loved all the food he’s made me, so I’m throwing caution to the wind. I pass on the mouth-watering pastries, choose a small bowl of fresh fruit instead, and follow Irina to the table.

We leave Alex to bullshit with the chef while he sips his second Bloody Mary.

The table is draped in a white linen tablecloth and has a Napoleonic bicorn hat as the centerpiece. The blue plates are perfectly aligned, and each holds a blue and white striped napkin with a silver shell-shaped napkin ring. The napkin is artfully scrunched to cover the plate like a flower. A pitcher of orange juice adds a splash of color to the otherwise blue-and-white theme. I’m beginning to associate the colors blue and white with anything nautical.

The table is in the shade, so Irina pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. I notice her long eyelashes and wish I looked more like her.

The sun is different here. It’s warmer, and the houses on the coast look straight out of a painting with their pale yellow exteriors, barrel-tiled roofs, and green shutters. The view reminds me of fragrance ads I used to tear out of magazines.

Irina lifts her glass and nods to mine. I pick up my drink, and we tap glasses. “To new friends. May our journey be long.”

“Zdorov’ye, to your health,” Alex says, coming up behind us. He reaches between us and puts his glass into the mix.

“To new friends,” I say as we clink glasses again.

Alex takes a gulp of his drink and says, “Let’s enjoy this change of scenery before we return to Monaco. I feel more at home in Italy. The weather and the people are warm, and I don’t have to have billions in the bank to fit in with the locals.”

I wonder if he feels like he lives in Roman’s shadow.

As if our host can hear my thoughts, he appears on deck. And as though he were the world’s largest magnet, all eyes are drawn to him. What drives me nuts is that he doesn’t have to work for it.

Roman’s eyes find me, and his face breaks into a broad smile.

“Well, this time, I’m the one who’s late.” I inhale his clean scent mixed with the salty air as he kisses me warmly. “Little bird,” he whispers into my ear.

My guess is that he calls me “little bird” because I’m the bird who flew the coup. The endearment is sweet. No one has ever given me a pet name before.

As soon as Roman sits down, the chief steward brings him a Bloody Mary without being asked. I guess it’s her job to know what he likes and when he likes it. She tells him what the chef has prepared for breakfast, and he requests an omelet with veggies.

While the chef prepares his order, she returns with the omelets for Irina and me. I pick up my fork to skewer a Cremini mushroom, and Roman steals it.

“Ah, it’s so good,” he teases, then chews it before swallowing.

“You think that’s funny?” I reply.

“Maybe a tiny bit.” He holds his thumb and finger a centimeter apart and winks.

“Now that’s the size of Roman’s cock,” Alex adds, making jokes at his friend's expense. A plate overflowing with enough breakfast food to feed three people is placed in front of him.

I snicker and cover my mouth.

“You’re not going to defend me?” Roman jests and acts like he’s wounded. I don’t know if that’s possible. The man is as guarded as a medieval knight in full battle armor. “Just for that,” he adds, leaning over my plate to steal another mushroom from my omelet before I’ve eaten a bite. “I’m taking another mushroom.”

“I love mushrooms. You stole it.”

“All’s fair in love and war. Besides, I take what I want,” he says, and his face turns serious.

“Don’t I know that,” Alex chimes. Skewering a sausage with his fork, he bites it in half.

Is Roman capable of love? In bed, he shows a tender side that he doesn’t reveal publicly. He’s Bratva, trained to keep a lid on his emotions. I know this, so why does my chest hurt when he doesn’t communicate his feelings with words?

He’s not the don. Surely he can bend a few rules. I have a flashback to Andrian and the look on his face the last time I saw him at our house. He’s not a man to cross.

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