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Her quiet footsteps fell in line behind me as we walked into the 1818 Kafe. One of the best—my favorite Russian restaurant in New York City.
The glass doors opened, and a couple of bodyguards escorted us to the reserved seat. We sat down and Mikhail, the owner of the restaurant and secret ally of the Bratva, strutted in with a cautious smile. “Mr. Varkov, it's a pleasure, as always.”
I acknowledged him with a curt nod and rubbed my hands. “Privet.”
The burly man with a bald head and bright blue eyes led two female waitresses forward to take our orders. They ogled me and approached me with an ease that disgusted me. “The usual.” I ignored the pushy ladies and shuffled onto the plush sofa to give my full attention to my wife. She looked sweet and stunning in a simple blue linen dress. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore light makeup. That was another thing I liked about her—her effortless but beautiful look.
She rubbed her arms and looked away, concentrating on everything but my face. I took off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. That caught her full attention.
My thumb stroked her lips, and I tipped her chin back, contemplating the fullness of her mouth. The taste of wine and sweetness lingered in my mind from last night and the blood rushed below my belt.
“Do you like it here?” Her eyes flickered to my mouth as she nodded, and the sharpness of her glare intensified the hardening in my pants.
“Good.” I withdrew my fingers before succumbing to the irrational animalistic urge to conquer her on the spot. I propped my arm on the edge of the sofa, behind her. “I like it here, too. When I first moved to this City, I hated it here. I hated everything. The noise, the food, the music... everything. Even the women didn’t satisfy me ... but I don’t have to worry about that anymore”, I winked, and she blushed. “But this place ...”. I glanced at the walls, on which Russian scribbles were painted. Good food, happy home.
“This is the only place that made me feel like I hadn’t been shipped to Mars.”
I heard the genuine sound of her soft laughter. My lips curved upwards. At last, I coaxed a laugh from her.
“It does look good,” she murmured under her breath, angling her head to take in the Moscow aesthetics. “And it smells good too.”
“Yes, this place has the best home-cooked meals–authentic Russian food. I want you to try some, as many dishes as you want. And after you've tasted them, Olga could show you how to prepare them. We Russian men don’t make jokes about our wives’ cooking skills.”
“Teach me?” That seemed to be the only thing she was holding on to. A vivid look lit up her delicate features and at that moment, in this capsule of time and space, the rest of the world blurred. Everything faded away and all I could see was pure joy and her laughter. “I can’t cook to save my life.”
That intrigued me. “But you were a waitress at Le Coin Brulet.”
“Doesn’t make me a chef, genius. I served like a pro, but I am no A-lister in the kitchen. One time, I tried to be creative with pasta and a cheese toast.”
“What the fuck is a cheese toast?”
She tried to speak but choked on her laughter. Tears of joy rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I don’t know,” her head went back, and the tears rolled to the side. “I really don’t know what I was thinking that day. Mixing cheese with flour, butter, and curry.”
Something tugged on my heart. I could swear, I never saw a sight more beautiful. Her laughter was like music to my ears and caused my heart to do an unusual double flip.
“Curry?” I didn’t hide my amusement. “You added curry to the cheese mix?”
She lifted her hands midair, surrendering. “It was supposed to be the best cheese toast of all time, I promise.”
“But the plan went south?”
“Totally south,” her head bobbed up and down. “Even Liam thought it was a disaster.”
The moment was broken. The time capsule that held us captive in this surreal moment was broken. Her smile disappeared and with it the exuberant joy. She lowered her gaze, and I sensed what was coming—a reminder of our reality. The reason we got married in the first place.
Before I could turn away, she grabbed my hands and covered my large hands with her small palms. Her touch was welcome, but this time it felt different. Like stinging needles on my skin. The shimmering tears sitting on her eyelashes gave her away. “Rafa ...”
I’d even earned a nickname.
“Rafa, please ...” she swiped her tongue over her lips. “Please, I promise I’d do anything... anything you want. Please ... just free him. Let my cousin—”
I snatched my hand from her grip and yanked my jacket off her shoulders. My appetite vanished into thin air.
The blood that boiled in my veins flowed in a different direction. The rage traveled towards the weapon safely tucked in my belt. My nose flared; my fists clenched. I wanted to shoot someone. The desire to spill blood was stronger than the peace I had felt just a few seconds ago. Now it was my turn. I wanted to be anywhere, anywhere but with her. If I didn’t move quickly, I would hurt her.
“Get up. We are leaving.”
