Page 43 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
He lets out a harsh breath. “I understand your perspective, and we’ll try to find a better solution.”
“Thank you.” I kiss the star on his right pec since it’s the closest bit of flesh to me. We settle into silence again, and his breathing evens out moments later. I relax too, but as I drift toward sleep in his arms, I don’t bother to pretend our acknowledgment of what exists between us has just made everything infinitely more dangerous. If Avgar Federoff discovers what Tigran and I have become to each other, he’ll never stop coming for me. Our connection has become something real that can be used as a weapon against us both.
16
Tigran
The reservation at Alinea took three phone calls and a significant donation to the chef’s favorite charity to secure because Grant Achatz doesn’t typically accommodate last-minute requests for his most exclusive private dining room. The kind of privacy I require comes at a premium that goes beyond mere financial considerations.
“You’re nervous,” Zita says as we approach the restaurant’s unmarked entrance on North Halsted. She looks stunning in a black dress that skims her knees and emphasizes the elegant line of her throat, but I catch the tension in her shoulders despite her composed exterior.
“Cautious,” I correct, offering my arm as we step out of the armored sedan. “There’s a difference.”
Viktor and two other men emerge from the follow car, their movements casual but alert as they take positions around the restaurant’s perimeter. Inside, three more of my people are already stationed among the servers and kitchen staff. Even thesommelier, who knows more about firearms than wine, is one of my people, coordinating with the actual sommelier in the back as needed. The level of security might seem excessive for a dinner date, but after yesterday’s attack, I’m taking no chances with Zita’s safety.
“This seems like a lot of trouble for a meal,” she says, though there’s appreciation in her voice as she takes in the restaurant’s minimalist elegance.
“You deserve more than hiding in the mansion while I handle business.” I guide her through the entrance, nodding to the hostess who recognizes me immediately. “You deserve to have a life beyond the walls of our home.” This gesture is to show her I’ve taken to heart what she said and acknowledged keeping her locked away might save her, but it will kill our relationship.
The truth is also more complicated than that. I want to give Zita an evening out after the trauma of yesterday’s attack and to show I’m listening to her needs. However, this dinner also serves a strategic purpose. Being seen together in public, relaxed and confident, sends a message to both allies and enemies that the Belsky organization remains strong. Threats against my wife haven’t succeeded in making me retreat into defensive isolation.
The private dining room is as I requested, with the windows covered, my men at the kitchen exit to ensure no one enters that way, and the single front entrance is easily monitored by Viktor and Simone, our IT person, who agreed to act as his fake date for the evening. There’s a third exit from the chef’s office that leads directly to an alley where an escape vehicle waits if needed. The intimate atmosphere would be truly romantic under different circumstances, but more important than romance is safety.
“Prepare for seventeen courses,” I say as we settle into our chairs. “Chef Achatz designed the menu personally when I explained my wife has adventurous taste.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Adventurous taste? What gave you that impression?”
“The way you walked into my conference room uninvited, the way you stood up to Viktor and Dmitri, and the way you kissed me at our wedding like you were declaring war all influenced my assumption.” I pour wine from the bottle that’s already been tested by my people for poison. “A woman who does those things isn’t afraid of molecular gastronomy.”
Her laugh is genuine, the first truly relaxed sound I’ve heard from her since the attack. “I suppose that’s one way to interpret my behavior.”
“How would you interpret it?”
“Desperation,” she says without hesitation. “Pure, stubborn desperation to maintain some control over a life that’d been decided for me by other people.”
I nod. “What about now?”
“I’m beginning to think maybe the life I was given isn’t the prison I thought it was.” She meets my gaze across the table. “Maybe it’s an opportunity I was too angry to recognize.”
Before I can respond to that intriguing admission, the first course arrives. It’s a single spoonful of something that looks more like art than food. The servers work like choreographed dancers, explaining each element of the dish in hushed tones before retreating to give us privacy.
“This is beautiful,” she says, studying the plate with genuine curiosity rather than the skepticism I expected.
“Wait until you taste it.”
We eat in comfortable silence with easy companionship that indicates we’re finally learning to be in each other’s presence without constant conflict. I watch Zita’s reactions to each new course, noting the way her eyes light up when something surprises her palate, the unconscious sounds of appreciation she makes when a flavor combination particularly pleases her.
“You’re staring,” she says during the seventh course, her cheeks slightly flushed from the wine pairings.
“I’m observing. There’s a difference.”
“What are you observing?”
“That you have lovely hands.” I nod toward where she holds her fork with unconscious elegance. “You laugh more when you think I’m not paying attention, and you taste each dish like you’re trying to memorize it.”
“I am trying to memorize it.” She sets down her utensils and leans back in her chair. “I want to remember what it feels like to have a normal evening with my husband.”
“Normal.” I test the word, finding it strange in the context of our lives. “Is this what normal feels like to you?”
