Page 33 of Entangled Mafia Princess

We return to sitting in silence. This guy is impossible to flirt with, so I resort to the perfunctory first date questions.

“Were you born here in San Francisco?” I ask while we drive through Chinatown.

“No.”

I wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I prompt him. “Somewhere else in California then?”

“I wasn’t born in the US.”

“Then where?”

Jesus, why is it so hard getting answers out of this guy? I don’t get him at all. He agreed to spend more time with me—on what most people would consider a date—but he doesn’t seem particularly happy about it.

“I was born in a hospital in Russia,” he reveals.

“Really? Did you grow up there?”

“I grew up near Russia, in China.”

He pulls up in front of a small mixed-use building in an area situated on the edge of Chinatown and the Italian district of North Beach. We’re a stone’s throw away from where the strip bars and adult stores are, and I don’t see any valet options here. But we manage to find a parking spot—probably because of the later hour—which feels like winning the lottery in this city.

“When did you move to the US?” I ask.

He turns to me after putting the car in park. “Look, princess, this isn’t a date. I’m not looking for a relationship or a long-term partner. You said you could fulfill all my fantasies. I want to know how.”

Chapter eleven

Kai

She balks at my frankness, then seems slightly disappointed. Casey Callaghan is probably used to men fawning over her and eating out of her hand. But even though she’s pretty in the classic American sense, she’s not my type for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that she’s the daughter of my enemy.

Carmen is more my type physically. I like brunettes and women with more backside. And I like them less naive and spoiled. But for now, Casey is my goal.

I get out of the car and see that her bodyguard has parked her car not too far from us. My men, Xiao and Ray, have pulled up across the street.

Normally I’d open the passenger door for a woman, but that’s what Casey’s used to. Still in the car, she doesn’t budge. I cross my arms. Probably realizing I’m not opening the door for her, she gets out on her own. I nod toward the restaurant. She opens the door and walks in.

The establishment looks like it opened in the 70s and hasn’t changed since. Tables with Formica tops and plastic chairs fill the space to the brim. A half dozen college students have pushed their tables together on one side of the restaurant. A pair of cops sit on the other side. I walk past two men holding hands to a table in the corner and decide to pull a chair out for Casey. Too much coldness might scare the princess off.

After taking off her thin jacket—more stylish than functional—and hanging it on the back of the chair, she sits down gingerly and seems to seek the position that’s best for her beaten ass.

“So what’s good here?” she asks.

“Depends what you like,” I reply.

She picks up one of the laminated menus from the middle of the table and looks it over. “I’ll give anything a try. I don’t have any dietary restrictions.”

“Then I’d recommend the braised beef noodles in soup. The pasta is hand pulled fresh everyday.”

“Sounds good.”

A waitress comes over and takes our order. Her curtness seems to surprise Casey. When she leaves, Casey looks around the place skeptically.

“How often do you come here?” she asks.

“Since I have my own chef, not often.”

I don’t brag, but my being well-off will probably put Casey more at ease. The waitress returns to plunk down our drinks, tea for me and a soda for Casey.

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