Page 20 of Porcelain Lies

“The chef captures it perfectly,” I say, dragging a piece of black bread through the stroganoff’s rich sauce. “It’s like heaven.”

He pours crystal-clear vodka into delicate glasses. The bottle sweats with frost, and I recognize the premium label — one my father still saves for special occasions.

“Na zdarovye,” he says, raising his glass.

“Za zdarovye,” I echo, clinking my glass with his. The vodka slides down smooth as silk, spreading warmth through my chest.

“You drink like a proper Russian,” he observes, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

I take another bite of pelmeni, savoring the tender meat filling. “I… I watched a lot of action movies growing up, I guess. Um… I’m a big Dolph Lundgren fan…” I improvise. Talking about our past has always been forbidden.

“Dolph Lundgren?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You know… Rocky? With um… Sylvester Stallone?”

God, I’m an idiot.

“Ah. Yes.” He nods. “He’s Swedish.”

Oh, geez.

“Really?” I squeak.

He chuckles, and the sound is like a warm wave that raises the tiny hairs on my arms. “This is not a test,krasivaya.”

I snort-laugh, the tension dissipating, and his lips twitch up into a smile that is mesmerizing.

God, he’s hot.

He refills our glasses without comment. The vodka has begun to soften the edges of everything — the lighting seems warmer, the velvet booth more embracing. Even the weight of Gianni’s betrayal feels distant, dulled by good food and better company.

“Try this.” He spoons golden fish roe onto my plate. “The chef imports it directly from the Caspian.”

I close my eyes as the delicate eggs burst against my palate. When I open them again, there’s an intensity to his expression that makes my breath catch. The vodka hums in my blood now, making everything feel more immediate, more intense. His presence across the table feels like a physical touch.

I reach for my water glass, needing something to do with my hands. Our fingers brush as he passes the bread basket, and that simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm.

I catch myself leaning forward, drawn into his orbit like a magnet. The vodka has painted everything in warm, hazy strokes, but his face remains crystal clear — those dark eyes, the slight curl at the corner of his mouth when he’s amused.

“So, you’re telling me you’ve never triedukhamade properly?” He shakes his head in mock dismay. “That’s practically criminal.”

“Is that so?” I prop my chin on my hand, closer than I should be. “And I suppose you’re an expert?”

“I caught the fish myself at my grandmother’s dacha. The secret is the vodka.”

“The secret to everything tonight seems to be vodka.” The words slip out before I can catch them, playful and dangerous.

He leans in slightly, matching my posture. “And is that a complaint?”

“Not at all.” I take another sip, holding his gaze over the rim of my glass. “Though I’m starting to think you’re trying to get me drunk.”

“Never.” His eyes dance with amusement. “I’m introducing you to proper Russian hospitality.”

“Mmm. Very hospitable.” I drag my finger along the rim of my glass, watching his eyes track the movement. The air between us feels charged, electric.

“You’re different than I expected,” he murmurs.

“Oh? And what did you expect?”

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