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“Thanks.” I click the door closed and whirl to face my room, collecting my thoughts.
Dashing to the en suite bathroom, I brush my hair and teeth, toss on a bit of mascara for the hell of it, then slip my feet into a comfortable pair of flats. I’m baffled by the sudden shift in Pyotr’s personality, like he’s flipped a switch.
He seems perfectly cheerful and willing to be in my presence today–for some unknown reason. Perhaps it has something to do with being back home. I can only imagine how he must have felt in Chicago without anyone he knows. Otherwise, I have no clue.
But I don’t want to let the opportunity to make amends slip by. Maybe now, we can finally turn over a new leaf and set aside everything that’s happened. While I don’t see myself forgetting about the humiliation he put me through in the library or the violation in the paint supply closet at school, he’s still my betrothed. I need to make this work–for my sanity, if nothing else–and if we can find a way to live with each other, I don’t want to be the one to drag out hostilities. A lifetime of bitterness and spite sounds unbearable.
Taking a deep breath, I look at myself in the mirror and slowly release it.Game face, Silvia,I coach myself. Then, with a sharp nod, I turn to open the bedroom door once more.
For some reason, I’m shocked to find Pyotr still standing in the hallway. An amused smile tugs at his lips when I yank it sharply open, but he doesn’t say what’s on his mind.
“Okay, I’m good to go,” I say breathlessly, smoothing my floral sundress unnecessarily.
“Good. I hope you don’t mind, but I had the kitchen staff pack a light breakfast for the car. We have a busy day ahead of us.” He places a hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the stairs, and the heat of his palm burns through the fabric covering my flesh.
“Oh, no problem,” I let him guide me, butterflies erupting in my chest. My stomach’s in such knots that I doubt I could eat much right now anyway. My head is spinning from Pyotr’s complete one-eighty. And I’m uncomfortably aware of how dashing he looks in a steel-gray suit that draws out the gray of his eyes.
New York is everything I dreamed it would be, with bustling crowds and vibrant life around every corner. Pyotr’s bodyguards, Val and Efrem, escort us around the city, keeping just enough distance that I don’t feel right talking to them and yet maintaining a watchful eye on the people around us.
We start at the major tourist attractions–the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and Times Square. We skip all the lines, seeming to get the VIP treatment as soon as Pyotr steps through the door. And I have to wonder just how influential he and his family are here in the city.
We stop for lunch at a tiny, unassuming sandwich shop on the Upper East Side, just blocks from Central Park, named the Pastrami Queen. Pyotr sends in Efrem–the blond, I learn after hours of observation–to collect our food while we wait outside with Val.
It surprises me that someone with seemingly such deliberately refined taste would choose a lunch spot that sells food that everyday people can–and enthusiastically do–afford. But Pyotr is, once again, entirely comfortable and in his element.
“This is one of the best sandwich spots in the world. I come here at least once a month for a pastrami on rye,” he explains, leaning just close enough to me so I can hear him over the people chattering happily around us.
“Really?” I ask, glancing at him in surprise. My breath catches as I realize how close his face actually is.
A slow smile curves his lips. “Really,” he confirms. “That surprises you?”
“I just thought… never mind.” I brave a tentative smile. “That’s really neat. Supporting local businesses. I like that.”
He chuckles. “It’ll hardly seem like a humanitarian act once you try the food.”
I can’t help my responding smile. “That good, huh?”
He nods. A few minutes later, Efrem exits the sandwich shop carrying an impressive-sized paper bag. We take the easy fifteen-minute walk over to Central Park and onto the Literary Walk to find a vacant bench under the canopy of impressive trees, where we sit to eat.
As soon as the flavorful meat hits my tongue, I groan in appreciation.
“Was I right, or was I right?” Pyotr asks, his sharp eyes watching me carefully as I enjoy my first bite. He hasn’t started on his own sandwich yet.
“This might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had,” I confess, around my mouthful of food. I sag gratefully against the back of the bench and take a second bite. I don’t even care if I’ve lost my sense of decorum. I’m going to sit here and relish every last crumb of my delicious meal.
Only after he’s content with my answer does Pyotr dig in as well. Even Efrem and Val got a sandwich at their boss’s insistence, though they take turns eating, so one of them is always present and watchful at Pyotr’s side.
“Have you always lived in Brooklyn?” I ask before taking my next bite.
Pyotr shakes his head as he swallows. “We used to live in Manhattan when I was younger. But when my father died, it was challenging for my mother to maintain all the boundaries of our territory. We moved out to Brooklyn when I was twelve. It’s more central to our business and where she felt safer without my father.”
He says the information factually enough, but something tugs in my heart at the unspoken hardships they must have endured. “But the Matron has managed to turn things around, right? Your Bratva is well known even in Chicago for being one of the strongest in the US.”
Pyotr shrugs. “She’s kept our clan together by sheer force of will, I think.” He smiles crookedly before taking another bite, indicating that’s all he wants to say on the matter.
“Do you miss your father?” I ask.
His strong brow lowers into a frown, and Pyotr continues to take bites and chew as if he has to think deeply about the question. “Yes,” he says finally. Short and succinct.
