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She doesn’t say another word as she collects her paperwork and hands it off to an impressively large man standing at her right shoulder. Her pristine French roll gives her an even more severe look today, with the reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
“Welcome to our home, Silvia,” she says cordially. “Please sit.”
I do, and she rings a table bell sitting within reach. A man wearing chef’s whites strides into the room a moment later. He swiftly gets busy opening the oven and plating our meal as Pyotr and Mila sit as well.
I watch in silence, intrigued by the dish he’s plating. Accompanied by rice and a lemon arugula salad, the breaded chicken looks incredible.
“Côtelette de volaille, for our special guest,” the chef says, his accent pronounced.
“Thank you.”
I smile at the ruddy-faced chef, who looks to be well into his sixties with a balding head. His hair appears to have steadily migrated down his face to an impressive black beard heavily streaked with gray.
He gives a nod of acknowledgment and departs once more. The Veles family digs in without a word, so I do the same. As soon as I cut the chicken, I realize it’s filled with an herbed butter sauce. The fragrance is incredible, making my mouth water before I even take a bite.
“Mmm,” I moan with appreciation as the crisp bread crumbs combined with the insanely tender chicken create a riot of flavor in my mouth.
“Pretty good, right?” Mila asks, her gray eyes dancing.
“You’re telling me,” I agree with a smile. “I’ve never heard of côtelette de volaille.”
“It’s more commonly known as Chicken Kiev,” the Matron states curtly.
I nod, recognizing the name, as forks and knives continue to scrape quietly across the dinner plates.
“Well, it’s delicious,” I say after a moment of awkward silence.
“I told you we have a good chef,” Pyotr says.
I vaguely recall him saying that at our first dinner together, what feels like a lifetime ago. Then it dawns on me that this must be the same chef that used to cook for Putin. I glance over my shoulder toward the door he exited through, appreciating him in a whole new light.
Silence pervades as we continue to eat, and the stiff awkwardness of sharing a meal with the small, sullen family stifles me. I take generous sips of white wine and attempt several topics of conversation to make the discomfort slightly more tolerable. But only Mila seems willing to talk.
By the time I’m nearing the end of my meal, I’ve learned that Mila’s seventeen and in her senior year of high school. She plays the piano and plans on going to a private college not too far from here next year. The same college, apparently, that Pyotr attended his freshman year, before transferring to Rosehill. The Matron and Pyotr seem far less willing to share information.
In fact, they seem to be having some form of silent discussion across the table, escalating the tension until I’m unable to carry on asking questions. Instead, I focus on my food, wondering if this is how their family dinners always are.
When the Matron finally speaks her mind, directing her conversation toward her son, she does so in Russian. Leaving me out of the loop intentionally. Whatever she asks makes Pyotr bristle visibly, and he sets down his cutlery to give her a calculating look.
He responds in Russian, the words gliding from his lips in a smooth cadence that makes my heart flutter. Why I would find the sound of his native tongue so appealing, I’m not sure. My family speaks Italian, so it’s not like I’m inexperienced with other languages. But his tone is curt, his eyes flashing, warning me that this is an argument.
The Matron counters, her voice rising along with her temper, it would seem.
Mila appears to follow their conversation, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them before finding me.
Does that mean whatever they’re saying is about me?My stomach sinks.
“Done with dinner, Silvia?” Mila asks, pointedly cutting off her brother.
Pyotr’s jaw snaps shut, and he crosses his arms over his strong chest as he looks away from the table.
“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.” I don’t care that I still have several bites left. I want to leave, and she’s offering me the perfect excuse.
Mila smiles brightly. “Want me to show you to your room?”
“That sounds wonderful,” I agree gratefully. Setting my napkin on the table, I stand swiftly. “Thank you for the delicious meal,” I say to the Matron.
“Of course,” she says cooly, her eyes never leaving her son’s face.
