Page 42 of Daddy Brigadier

“No worries,” he replies with a grin, gently pushing me toward the door. “I’m sure they’ll fit us in somehow.”

“Good evening, Mr. Volkov,” the host greets us and guides us to a secluded corner table in the restaurant.

With a polite smile, he gestures for me to take a seat, and I stoop to sit. But Valentin clears his throat, causing the man to step back immediately. With a gentle push, Valentin slides my chair in, his rough fingers brushing my shoulder just before he settles into his own seat.

How could he have known we were coming here and that we would have a table?

“How did you manage to score a table so quickly?” I ask, glancing at the packed restaurant, with every table occupied and servers rushing about.

“There’s no restaurant in the city I can’t get into when I want to,” he responds, flipping open the wine menu and swiftly checking the selections. “Except, of course, for Italian,” he says with a playful laugh.

Ah, yes. I’m aware of the ongoing conflict between Mr. Bianchi and the Savins. I just killed some of his men while saving the Brigadier and Colonel. Perhaps I am at war with him, too, and don’t even realize it yet.

“Red or white?” Valentin asks, lifting his eyes to me.

My eyes scan the wine list. I am feeling out of my depth since growing up in a trailer park didn’t exactly prepare me for the rigors and etiquette of fine dining.

“Surprise me,” I say, hoping he won’t notice I have no idea what I’m looking at.

He places the order, and the waiter brings over a bottle of white wine with an exotic name.

He swirls the liquid in his glass, savoring the moment before taking a sip. Intrigued by his actions, I can’t help but take a sip myself.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his expression unreadable.

“It’s good,” I answer, though truthfully, I wouldn’t have known the difference.

“I agree,” he says. “Well, let’s say it’s okay. Not worth the $7,000 price tag.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “Excuse me, what?”

He meets my gaze with amusement, making me realize how ridiculous I must appear. For a Brigadier worth over several billion dollars, spending $7,000 on a bottle of wine is likely as casual as me picking up a six-pack of beer.

“I have something for you,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. He produces a small box and slides it across the table.

“Is this a peace offering?” I question, my fingers wrapping around the box.

“I didn’t realize we were ever at war,” he replies with a smile.

The box is black with engraved writing written just for me: ‘Krasotka, you were mine from our first kiss. Love, Valentin.’

I run my fingers over the words:Love, Valentin.Before I can stop myself, a single tear slips down my cheek.Love. I never thought he would have written that.

“Are you okay?”

Sniffling, I am trying to hold back the flood of emotions and whisper, “It’s so beautiful.”

He reaches out, tucking my hair behind my ear with a tender touch. “That’s just the box. Open it.”

As I open the box, I’m greeted by something I wasn’t expecting. Inside lies a stunning collar shimmering with diamonds, but it’s more than just a piece of jewelry—it’s a symbol, accentuated with a diamond pendant in the shape of the letter V.

This collar is a symbol of my bond with him, the Brigadier. A symbol that I am his, and he is mine.

“I can give you the world, Krasotka, if you let me.”

“I love it,” I murmur, tears trickling down my cheeks, which I quickly brush away.

“Then what’s wrong?”