Page 14 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I nod. Cartier’s gaze flits between him and me, and then finally, she shrugs. “Sure.”
We watch the guy performing his magic in comfortable silence. I’ve never felt the need to fill empty gaps in conversations. If anything, the opposite is true: I thrive on making people feel uncomfortable.
But right now, I’m enjoying watching the beautiful woman by my side. Her emotions dance across her face, wonder, curiosity, excitement. I’m getting a quiet buzz from her experience. A first for me.
Her gaze follows the mixologist, wide-eyed, when he slides two vastly different cocktails across the counter towards us.
Cartier’s tulip-shaped glass is filled with a rainbow of liquids and served on a bed of dry ice. The rim, sparkling with diamonds, catches the lights as she examines her drink that shimmers and swirls making golden patterns inside the glass.
“What’s this called?” She blinks at the bartender.
“Whatever you want it to be called. It’s yours.”
“Mine?” She furrows her brow and turns her attention to my cocktail.
Served in a flat, saucer-shaped glass with black vines crawling up the stem and the side of the bowl, my drink is blood-red, with a shimmering black swirl across the surface. Plain compared to Cartier’s concoction, the drink was prepared to whatever recipe the mixologist saw in his mind when he shook my hand.
Cartier’s eyebrows slide upward as realization sinks in. “Wow.”
The mixologist slinks back into the shadows of the bar. No glory. No gloating. They simply make a living out of reading people.
“Try it.” I gesture at her drink.
Cartier takes a tentative sip, her perfect lips kissing the tip of a clear glass straw. She savors it as it goes down, takes a second sip, a third, and then sits back, licking her lips. “It’s—” she shakes her head “—like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.”
“How does it make you feel?” Not a question I’ve ever asked before either.
Her smile grows wide, lighting up her face. “I don’t know. Good, I guess. No, better than good. Like I could literally sit here all night and feel like I’ve had ten hours’ sleep.”
I’d call that a win.
“Try yours.”
She watches me closely while I raise the black glass straw to my lips. The liquid is unnaturally warm, denser than expected as though stirred through with farina, sweet but with an aftertaste that quickly turns sour on my tongue. I’ve visited a couple times before, and my cocktail has been different each time, but this… This one hits the spot.
“It’s the flavor I never knew I was looking for.”
“That’s it.” Her eyes widen. “That’s what they should call this place: the flavor you never knew you were looking for.”
We don’t order a second drink. People rarely do.
I settle the substantial check, and we head back outside, hands entwined as if we’ve known each other for years rather than hours.
“What’s next?” Cartier asks. “No pressure, but that’s going to take some beating.”
I smile. “Challenge accepted.”
One of the benefits of being the younger son of a Bratva pakhan is the luxury of living my best life without any repercussions or obligations. Unlike my brother, I don’t have to remember my duty to the family twenty-four-seven. Leonid has no clue that places like this cocktail bar even exist. He has spent his life growing into our father’s serious footsteps, while I was sailing to Italy to purchase bespoke shoes made with the finest leather and meeting beautiful women from all around the world.
I fire a message through to my driver and we head south on foot.
It feels as if Cartier’s hand belongs in mine, like it fits, two hands molded from the same pot of clay. I put it down to the after-effect of the cocktail, but I’m almost disappointed when the sleek black car pulls up alongside us a few minutes later and we climb onto the back seat.
We don’t speak.
Ten minutes later, we emerge from the car into the livelier district of River North, but I pull Cartier away from the noise of the nightclubs and bars and pedestrian-heavy sidewalks. Down by the river, we enter a warehouse that looks as if it has been empty for decades.
