Page 15 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“This is incredible,” I say after my first spoonful. The flavors dance across my tongue.

“Mikhail trained at Le Cordon Bleu before working in Moscow’s finest restaurants.” Valerian watches me over the rim of his wine glass. “I stole him away with an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Did that offer involve breaking his kneecaps if he declined?”

Valerian’s lips twitch. “Actually, it involved a salary that would make Gordon Ramsay weep, though the other option was available.”

I shouldn’t laugh at that, but I do. The wine must be getting to me.

The next course arrives of tender beef stroganoff alongside perfectly seared salmon.

“Tell me about your family,” he says between bites. “Beyond what I already know from my background check.”

“You ran a background check on me?” My fork hovers above my plate, the knowledge taking some of the enjoyment from the aroma of perfectly seared salmon wafting up.

“I run background checks on everyone in my orbit.” He looks at me with an intensity that roots me to my chair before he taps his fingers once against his wine glass. “Standard procedure.”

“There’s nothing interesting to tell.” I concentrate on dissecting my salmon into precise, geometric portions, watching the pinkflesh flake apart. “My parents own a flower shop. My brother’s in jail. You know all this.”

“What I know are facts.” He sets down his fork with a delicate clink. “I want to know who they are. Who you are.”

I raise my head, examining his expression. Behind his usual mask of cool control, genuine interest softens the sharp angles of his face. The dinner candle’s flame reflects in his pupils.

“My dad taught me to ride a bike in the alley behind Bloom House,” I say, my voice going quiet with the memory. “He’d close the shop early on summer evenings so we could practice. The air would be sweet with leftover flowers, and Mom would bring out her homemade mint lemonade and ‘Hello, Kitty’ bandages for my scraped knees.”

“You were close.” His words come out more statement than question.

“We still are.” I lift my wine glass, letting the rich burgundy coat my tongue. The alcohol has warmed my cheeks, making me bold enough to turn the tables. “What about your family?”

Something dark flickers across his features, like a shadow passing over still water. His jaw tightens, and he runs his finger along the rim of his wine glass. “My parents, especially my father, were… reserved.” The words come out clipped, each one precise and well considered.

“I’m sorry.” The inadequacy of the phrase hangs between us in the soft evening light.

He waves off my sympathy with an elegant flick of his wrist, his ring catching the glow from the ceiling fixtures. “It was a longtime ago. My father wasn’t particularly warm or paternal, but he taught me the family business.”

“The legitimate parts or the other parts?” The wine makes me bold enough to ask what sobriety would warn against. I lean forward, elbows on the table, watching his reaction.

His laugh is unexpected and rich, rolling through the room like distant thunder. The sound transforms his face, softening the sharp edges of his cheekbones, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Both. He believed in a comprehensive education.” He takes another sip of wine, but his smile lingers, a rare glimpse behind the mask. He shrugs. “My mother believed in maintaining an image and relished her role as my father’s partner above everything.”

“Including motherhood?” At his nod, I frown. “That’s unfair.”

He laughs lightly. “Life is unfair.”

The wine warms my blood as our conversation flows more naturally. “What else about you?”

He hesitates. “I speak five languages.”

My mouth drops open. “Wow. Five? Well?”

He laughs again. “Very well for Russian, English, French, and Italian,” Valerian lists off, swirling his wine. “My Mandarin needs work.”

“That’s incredible. I barely managed high school Spanish.” I sample the chocolate mousse that’s appeared for dessert. The rich flavor melts on my tongue.

“Languages came easily to me as a child. My father insisted on total immersion, different tutors speaking only their nativetongue.” He watches me enjoy the dessert, a hint of satisfaction in his expression. “What made you choose massage therapy?”

“I wanted to help people.” The mousse is divine, and I take another spoonful. “There’s something powerful about being able to ease someone’s pain, even if just for an hour. My first client was this elderly woman, a retired dancer, with arthritis. After our session, she cried because it was the first time in years she could move her knees without pain. She still can’t dance, but with regular massages, she can walk better than she has in years. Of course, her other treatments help too, but my service makes a difference.”

“A noble pursuit.” His tone holds no mockery. “Do you enjoy historical romance novels for the same reason? The healing power of love?”

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