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Sweet?Ha. If only she knew who she's really talking to. Then again, I kept most of myself tucked away during our night together. She remembers the dominance, the carnal debauchery, but we never actually sat down to just talk and get to know one another.
“But if you're too busy, I totally understand—”
“Dinner would be great,” I say quickly. “I just need to tidy up my office, and then we can go.”
Nikita beams. “Alright then.”
* * *
La Croix, that new restaurant downtown Charlotte wanted to drag me to, is one of the most impressive fine dining establishments I've ever set foot in. Classy. Upscale. I'm sure it brings in the kind of clientele that can afford to throw a couple thousand rubles out the window for appetizers alone. That kind of profit margin could be incredibly beneficial to the Bratva.
“Uh, Leo?”
I turn and glance down at Nikita. “Something wrong?”
“Are you sure it's alright for me to come here?”
“Why wouldn't it be?”
She shifts, picking beneath her fingernails. “I'm a little underdressed.”
I pause for a moment, baffled at my insensitivity. My name opens a lot of doors, so I'm sure they'll let us in regardless, but I should have taken Nikita's feelings into account.
“Would you prefer to go somewhere else?” I ask gently.
“I just don't want to get us into trouble, that's all.”
I almost laugh.Almost. My family owns all of Moscow. Getting into trouble is impossible as far as I'm concerned.
“They'll let us in,” I say firmly, offering her my elbow. When she slips her slender arm through, I've never been more nervous. She's so small, a little bird clinging to a beast triple her size. I'm not used to handling such fine crystal outside the bedroom, so to speak.
“I trust you,” she says.
I almost tell her not to. Only good men are worthy of such a thing. Her trust is misplaced—but for some reason, I'm eager to prove her right.
As expected, the maître’ d gives her a judgmental once-over. He turns his nose up. “I'm sorry, but we have a strict policy about—”
“My name is Leo Nicolaevich, and we'd like the table in the back.”
The man's face goes white the moment he hears my name. It's a good thing. It means my brothers have already laid the groundwork for me. Knowing Roman, he's probably already spoken to the owners, tested the waters. It's my job to swoop in and start throwing around numbers, except—
I force the thoughts from my mind. Business shouldn't be my top priority. Right now, I want to spend a lovely evening with Nikita and get to know her over a couple glasses of wine and all the food her heart might desire. Normal stuff. A perfectly average date. Surely I can pretend to be an upstanding citizen for a couple of hours.
“That was impressive,” Nikita whispers to me when the maître’ d hastily grabs a pair of menus and guides us to the back with as charming a smile as he can muster. Where once he was ready to kick us out onto the curb, now he's giving us the royal treatment. I shrug, nonchalant. Best not to say anything more, or it might rouse her suspicions.
I pull her chair out for her like a gentleman. She rewards me with a sweet smile and a light laugh. “Why, thank you.”
“May I get you started with something to drink, Mr. Nicolaevich?” the maître’ d asks.
“A bottle of your house red.”
“Actually,” Nikita says quickly. “I can't drink. I mean, I shouldn't. Not with my training schedule.”
“What would you like?” I ask. “Anything you want. Just ask.”
“Maybe a can of Diet Coke?”
The maître’ d once again curls up his nose. “Miss, this is La Croix. We don't serve cans ofDiet Coke.” He says it like it's some kind of a slur, insulting to him in every imaginable way.
