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“I have many,” he admits, his expression growing serious as he levels me with a grave look. “The worst of which killed my father not long ago, which is how I becamepakhan.”
The weight of his words bring a sadness with them, though Ilya does not seem overly emotional about his father’s death. I wonder what type of man he must have been to raise a son like Ilya.
“So, is it common, then, for someone your age to bepakhan?”
Ilya shakes his head, confirming my suspicion. “It was a necessity, seeing as our Bratva was left leaderless right at the onslaught of a territory war. I have… earned my title on the job, so to speak.”
“And do you like it? Being in charge?” I lean forward, fascinated by how open Ilya’s been up to this point, somehow excited and enticed by him though common sense would tell me I should be running for the hills right now–or hailing an Uber as soon as I possibly fucking can. But instead, I find myself drawn to this strong, dangerous man with a deep, sexy voice and seductive Russian accent.
“It is what I was born to do,” he says simply, his penetrating gaze making my skin tingle.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I point out, narrowing my eyes.
“I think I have answered enough of your questions about my life for tonight. I would like to learn more about you. My sister tells me you are a dancer. A ballerina?” Ilya leans forward, interlacing his fingers as he sets his elbows on the table in a look of deep contemplation.
I’m momentarily thrown off balance by his revelation, and it takes me a moment to recall the face of the girl he was in line with during registration. There had been something familiar about her, and suddenly I’m reminded of our first meeting and how Ilya told me his sister went to Englewood High. At the time, I’d wondered if it was an attempt to trick me into getting in his car, but now I’m sure he was telling the truth. She must have been in school with me, though probably a grade younger because I don’t know her by name.
“Yes, that’s why I chose Rosehill College. They have one of the best fine arts programs in the country.”
“So I’ve been told,” Ilya says dryly, his characteristic eyebrow rising with amusement that I don’t quite understand. “And you would go to school to become a ballerina at the cost of considering my offer,” he observes.
“Yes,” I confess.
“Though it clearly troubles you to let me ‘pay your way through school in order to have sex with you’ as you so succinctly put it.”
“Yes.” I wet my suddenly dry lips as a hint of animal pleasure colors Ilya’s tone making him sound both more intoxicating and dangerous all at once.
Our dinners arrive just at that moment, our server placing each beautifully arranged china plate in front of us before he observes that we haven’t even touched the caviar set between us.
“Would you prefer I hold off on your meals until you’ve completed your appetizer?” he asks apologetically, seeming perturbed by his lack of perfect timing.
“No, this is fine,” Ilya says lightly. “Thank you.” He waves our server away with the air of a man who’s so entirely used to his station in life that he can’t even see it as dismissive.
I give the man a small smile, which he doesn’t return as he flees in fear, seeming grateful to have made it out of his blunder alive.Dear god, what have I gotten myself into?
Our conversation dies down as we both start to eat, and I have to confess that the duck Ilya ordered from me might just be some of the best meat I’ve ever eaten in my life. Whether that’s because my version of a high-end meal consists of ground beef marinated in Ragu and poured over noodles or because duck happens to be a far superior animal than I gave it credit for, I don’t know. It could also be the fact that the price of a single dish at this restaurant could cover the cost of my low-budget meals for a week.
Whatever the case, despite knowing that I have a dancer’s figure to maintain, I finish my entire meal in one sitting. The conversation we strike up as we eat is lighter, consisting more of general interests we might have and lighter antics about our life. While Ilya has that same charm from over a year ago and a brightness to his eyes that shows he appreciates my sarcastic sense of humor, he also somehow seems more serious than I recall him being when we first met, more easy to frown–as though he’s carrying a heavy weight he hadn’t been before. And I suppose he has. He now bears the responsibility his father wasn’t supposed to pass on to him for years to come, from what I gather.
As dinner comes to a close, Ilya pays what I’m sure is a substantial bill without batting an eye before escorting me back out to his car and helping me into the passenger side. Then he slides into the driver’s side, and puts the car in gear once more.
This time, I know better than to ask where we’re going, choosing instead to peer out my window until he pulls up outside a dark-painted standalone building that could almost blend into the night if not for the brilliant neon sign of a female figure dressed in nothing but a thong with brilliant red exes covering the spots where her nipples should be.
My stomach tightens as I read the name scrawled across the glowing fabric between her open legs: Tanya’s. Beneath the fluorescent name is a tiny subheading establishing it as a gentlemen’s club that’s been proudly serving customers since 1978.
“Come,” Ilya says after my door opens slowly before me. He offers me a hand, and I take it tentatively as I rise from the car.
Ilya tosses his keys to the valet standing just inside the door, and the young man greets Ilya by name, telling me this isn’t his first time here. Throughout the open layout of the club are scantily clad women–some dressed in shiny black leather, others in fine lace or bejeweled lingerie–and shirtless men. While no one’s having outright sex on the floor, my eyes grow wide at the considerable amount of heavy petting and intense lip locks around the room.
What the fuck have I done?I ask myself for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
Ilya’s large hand rests against the small of my back as he guides me down the stairs into the club’s bar area and past a long hallway of doors where the exultant cries of men and women tell me just what’s happening on the other side. My palms start to sweat, and I can’t stop myself this time as my hand reaches my lips and I bite down forcefully on the corner of my index nail.
I sense Ilya’s gaze on me, and reluctantly, I glance up into his dark eyes. In this light, they look almost onyx, and I feel as though, if I looked hard enough, I might find my own terrified expression reflecting in their depths like a mirror.
With a gentleness that surprises me, Ilya reaches up to extricate my nail from between my teeth, lowering my hand to my side once more. “Relax,moya feya,” he commands. “We will not start until you are ready. Would you like to have another drink with me while we discuss things further?”
Heady relief floods my chest, and I nod gratefully before allowing him to guide me toward a high-top table.I can do this,I coax myself as I consider my suitor from a new perspective. Why I might somehow feel safe with a complete stranger who is none other than thepakhanof a Bratva, I don’t know. But despite all my anxiety, despite the countless red flags that should be telling me this is a bad idea, I find that I trust Ilya. I can only hope that trust is not completely misguided.
