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“So, where are you taking me?” I ask lightly as I surreptitiously wipe the sweat from my palms onto my tights.
“Dinner,” Ilya says simply, his eyes glancing my way as his lips curl into an amused smile.
He’s toying with me. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m nervous, so I shrug lightly and fiddle with the stereo until I find my favorite local rock station. Ilya remains silent, keeping his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his stick shift, as he lets me do as I please. Somehow, that makes me feel more childish than I did before, and I fold my hands in my lap as I look out the window, watching the buildings slide by.
We’re heading east, toward the water, and by the time Ilya pulls into a parking space, we’ve said all of ten words to each other. But that somehow only makes me more nervous about what’s to come. When Ilya helps me from his car–I don’t dare touch it to open my own door–he tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, and he clicks his key fob, commanding the car’s doors to shut on their own.
I’ve spent less than ten minutes with this man, and so far everything from his car to his clothes to the clearly high-end cologne that makes my insides quiver screams the difference in class between him and me. He’s a man of money, with deep pockets and luxuries he probably takes for granted every day. Meanwhile, I’m wearing a dress I’ve owned since the start of high school, one of the outfits I plan on wearing until it unravels around me. Admittedly, my cheeky style lends itself to the frayed clothes and somewhat grunge look, but on Ilya’s arm, I feel shoddy, ill-dressed, and far below his echelon of people.
He doesn’t even seem to notice though as he glances appreciatively at me from the corner of his eye.How is it that someone so blatantly willing to offer me money in exchange for sex can come across like such a gentleman?From his well-kept hair and five-o’clock shadow to the perfectly tailored suit showing off his impressively muscled arms, Ilya looks for all the world like someone destined forForbesmagazine. Or at least he would be if his business were even remotely legal, which I suspect it’s not.
Opening the door for me, Ilya escorts me into La Petite Folie, a fancy French restaurant just outside of Englewood that I applied to for a job once upon a time only to be turned down because I didn’t have enough serving experience. I had just turned sixteen at the time. I haven’t been inside the classy joint since, and as I take in the white table cloths and sharply dressed waitstaff, I can’t help but to agree with their assessment of me. I wasn’t worthy of a job here let alone the title of valued customer.
But as Ilya stops at the host stand, the gentleman behind the podium gives us each a respectful nod and escorts us to the table without a second glance at the state of my clothes or the fact that I have enough eyeliner on to take the place of eye black on the cheeks of an entire football team with ease. I have to admit, it feels good to be accepted into a high-class restaurant simply because of the man I keep company with.
“Your table, sir, ma’am,” the host says, gesturing to our location before pulling out my chair.
I sink into it appreciatively and do my best not to gawk as I take in my surroundings.
“We’ll take a bottle of champagne,” Ilya states, “and the caviar to start.”
The host’s gaze flicks in my direction before he gives a curt nod and departs.
“Ilya, I’m not old enough to drink,” I hiss as soon as the host is out of earshot.
A knowing smile spreads across his strong face, and Ilya raises an eyebrow. “With me you are.”
Fucking hell.My thumb jumps nervously to my lips before I can catch myself and force my hands back to my lap so I don’t start chewing my nail in front of this entirely too dangerous stranger.
“You do not have to drink if you do not wish,” he adds. “But I assure you no one here will stop you.”
Our server confirms his statement a moment later as our appetizer arrives along with a bottle of champagne and two flutes. The server pops the bottle with a flourish before pouring us each a glass and setting the bubbly into a bucket of ice. Without glancing at the menu, Ilya orders both of our meals without pausing to ask if I like duck–which I’ve never tried, anyhow, so it wouldn’t have mattered really.
Once we’re alone, Ilya raises his champagne to toast me, and I mirror him, lightly tapping our glasses together. I’ve never tasted champagne before, and while the oddly acidic, almost grapefruit-like flavor trickles down my throat, I enjoy the carbonation. Ilya watches me with interest, as if intrigued to see what my reaction might be.
Rather than pausing to give him the satisfaction, I force a neutral expression onto my face and set my champagne aside. “So, Ilya, tell me. How old are you?”
A shocked snort escapes my date, and Ilya covers his mouth momentarily as he sets his own drink aside. I wonder if I might not be pushing my luck to cut straight to the chase like that, but my nerves won’t let me be polite. I tend to get blunt when something’s stressing me out.
“I’m twenty-seven,” he says mildly, his eyes dancing as he watches me closely. “And you must be, what, nineteen?”
“Good guess.” But an easy leap considering he knows I’m too young to drink and old enough for college.
He hasn’t given me any indication that he remembers me from the first time we spoke, so I doubt he came up with that number based on knowing I was seventeen when we met.Why would he remember me?He’d clearly had bigger things on his mind that day, and we’d only spoken for a few minutes. Of more important consideration is the fact that this makes him eight years older than me–a pretty substantial difference in my book.
“And what is it that you do, exactly, that makes you able to afford a Lamborghini at the age of twenty-seven?” I ask lightly, picking up my champagne once more to take another sip of liquid courage.
“I ampakhanof the Shulaya Bratva.”
I barely get my hand up in time to stop myself from spraying champagne all over the table, and my eyes water as I force the burning liquid down my throat. Of all the things I expected him to say to me, that was last on my list. I’d imagined he might find some euphemism to hint at working with some Bratva or other, something about managing “international business relations for a lucrative sales company” or something like that. I can’t believe he just outright said he’s a member of the Russian mob.
It takes several moments to regain my composure, and I have to clear my throat before I manage to speak again. “Excuse me,” I start casually, like my response was little more than a sneeze. “I must admit, I don’t actually know what apakhandoes.”
Ilya chuckles lightly. “He is the leader.”
Lead drops in my stomach as I openly gape at Ilya. Here I am, sitting across the table from the head of a Bratva, and I’ve just brazenly asked him to tell me his life story. And even more confounding is the fact that he is. Suddenly, I don’t know what to say. Ilya looks on with mild amusement for several long moments before reaching across the table to lightly hook a finger under my jaw, slowly drawing it closed.
“So before, when you told me you had enemies…?” I pry more gently, leaving my question open-ended now that I know the size fish I’m swimming with–more like a shark than a fish if I’m being honest with myself.
