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I pull my hand back and drop it in my lap. “Hm?”
“A secret for a secret. That’s how we’ll build trust.”
“So that’s how this works?”
Pyotr nods, eagerness in his eyes as he watches me. I take a moment to think. I don’t have many secrets, and certainly nothing that rivals the significance of the one Pyotr just told me, but I’m sure I’ve got a few up my sleeve I could share with him.
“I happen to like playing the piano,” I tell him. “I’m actually pretty good. I used to have dreams of attending Julliard, but…”
“But what?”
“That was a very long time ago. I haven’t exactly kept up with my practice.”
“Why not? Because your mother said it gave her headaches?”
I smile at him, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering. “You remember that? I didn’t think you were listening.”
“I was.” He watches me for a moment, that strange intensity once again darkening his eyes. “Why did you stop?” he urges.
“When I was little,” I start slowly. “I used to play for Father all the time. But then he… Well, it was a deal gone wrong. Mother never told me the details, but he was gunned down by a rival family.”
Pyotr’s brows furrow. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and try my best not to get swept up in the memory. “It was miserable in that house after Father died. Mother turned into a tyrant. I tried playing the piano at Father’s wake, but Mother stomped over and slammed the lid down on my fingers in front of everyone. She broke both my pinkies and bruised all my knuckles. After that, I wasn’t as eager to play anymore.”
The muscles in Pyotr’s jaw tick. I can’t decipher the look he gives me as he takes my hand in his own and inspects my fingers, carefully brushing the pad of his thumb over my knuckles. They’ve long since healed, but he treats me as though the injury is fresh. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect this hulking, terrifying-at-first-glance man to have such a gentle streak. It’s almost intimate, the way he touches me.
“You’ll have to play for me some time,” he says firmly, leaving no room for protest. “I would enjoy that immensely.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah… Maybe.”
Neither of us make a move to pull away. If anything, I feel myself drawn to him, pulled ever closer like a moth to a flame. The longer I stare at him, the more I start to think—would it be so bad? Would it be so bad if I leaned in and kissed him?
Two knocks vibrate the office’s glass door.
Merrybell sticks her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve just received an invitation to the Burcheist Gala. Would you like for me to RSVP?”
Pyotr lets go of my hand and straightens in his seat. Back to business. “Isn’t the gala tomorrow? Why am I only getting an invitation now?”
“Perhaps it was lost in the mail?”
My ears perk up. “What’s this about a gala?”
“It’s a charity dinner,” Pyotr explains, “to raise money for food banks all over the state of New York.”
“He goes every year,” Merrybell tells me with a wink. “He’s got a soft spot for those in need.”
He doesn’t seem to be affected by the comment, though he does clear his throat. “Tell them I’m coming,” he says. “And mark me down for a plus one.”
I glance at him. His eyes have already found mine. “I get to go?”
“Like I said, wherever I go…”
Chapter 12
Pyotr
My bringing Alina serves two purposes. For one, she can’t cause trouble if I’m keeping an eye on her. Two, it’ll be good to be seen in public together. There are always hordes of photographers at events like this, and if we’re going to fool Immigration, we need to give the illusion we’re a happy, adoring couple. A couple of snaps of us here and there are sure to go a long way.
