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“I’m a businessman,” he says with an air of easy casualty. “I dabble in this and that. Besides, you said you like the food.”
“So?”
“You can come here whenever you'd like and eat free of charge.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I'm joking?”
My mouth goes dry, my throat suddenly tight. This is crazy. This is absolutely crazy, and yet...
“I'm coming on a bit strong, aren't I?” he asks, looking a bit perturbed.
“A little, yes, but…” I reach across the table and place my hand over his. “Considering what we did at the cabin and what happened just now, its also the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you for standing up to that awful man.”
Leo nods. “He shouldn't have spoken to you that way.”
And then, that's that. Leo doesn't bring it up again, nor does he elaborate on his reason or even his means of purchasing La Croix after a brief five-minute talk with the now previous owner. I have a million and one questions, but I'm frankly so flabbergasted I don't even know where to begin. Whoishe? What sort of man is willing to buy a whole restaurant simply because I like the food, or fire a man without even lifting a finger for so much as looking at me wrong?
We return to our meals, the conversation taking a much lighter, breezier tone. We talk about the weather. Our plans for the weekend. Casual, polite, inoffensive.
But the entire time, a single word echoes around in my skull. Over and over and over again.
Bratva.
It’s the Bratva that’s got my father stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I try to push it away, try to chalk it up to something spoken out of anger. For all intents and purposes, Leo is a nice man. Business savvy. A patron of the arts. The kind of guy who pulls out your chair and stops in the middle of the street to give your car a boost. He may look outwardly hard, but I can tell he has a good heart.
There's just no way he’s a gangster. I refuse to believe it.
Chapter 8
Nikita
“Ihad a lovely time tonight,” I tell him as he walks me to the front door of my apartment building. Leo was courteous enough to drive me home in his car after dinner so I didn’t need to call for a ride. When we stepped out of the restaurant, it had gotten significantly darker and colder, prompting Leo to once again drape his overcoat over my shoulders. It's the strangest thing, but I think he likes the way it looks on me.
“I'd invite you up for coffee,” I say, “but I live with my mother and… Well.”
His smile grows, little by little. It's so strange that such a small expression can feel like such a treat, especially coming from him. “Not to worry. Next time.”
I fiddle with my keys. “And when would next time be?”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Are you free?”
I can't help but laugh. Leo is weird in the most endearing way possible. “Two nights in a row? What will my mother think, Mr. Nicolaevich?”
“What your mother thinks is of no concern to me.”
“I'm teasing you, Leo. Tomorrow would be great. I should be done with practice around six”
“I'll pick you up.”
I nibble on my bottom lip, trying to contain my grin. His eyes flit down to follow the motion, a deep and curious hunger lurking behind his expression. I know he's holding back. So am I. From what I've seen, a man like Leo doesn't need permission. He takes no orders, offers no compromise. This man walks into a room and, on a whim, can choose to own it. I never would have believed it if I hadn't witnessed it happen a few hours ago.
There's something about him that leaves me breathless and amazed. I want to peel the layers back, discover what makes him tick. How has this hurricane of a man not swept me off my feet in the worst possible way? Why do I feel like I'm safe as long as I remain in the eye of his storm?
“May I kiss you?” he asks, his tone flat, his gaze warm.
