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One side of my mouth tips up at the corner. “You might want to try again. Didn’t quite buy it.”
“Chill, okay? I faked it at our wedding. I’ll be fine. Let’s get this over with.”
I take a deep breath and hold out my open palm to Kira. She hesitates momentarily, before taking my hand as the limo door opens and the charade begins.
"For your next course,we have beautiful pan-seared scallops on a bed of truffle-infused cauliflower purée, garnished with microgreens, and a delicate saffron and citrus emulsion."
Kira hangs on every word as Daria places the dishes before us. “Are these local truffles?" she asks.
“They are, indeed,” Daria replies. “Few people know these mushrooms grow in Russia. I’m impressed that you do.”
Kira's face lights up with a wide, genuine smile, the kind that reaches her eyes and transforms her entire expression. It hits me how beautiful she is when she’s not flinging insults my way.
An hour earlier, we had posed for photos in front of the restaurant, the paparazzi’s cameras flashing away. As promised,she smiled broadly for the pictures and posed beside me. But her expression was brittle, her pose stiff. I doubt anyone else noticed, so captivated by our appearance, but I did. That's why seeing her now, at ease, with real joy on her face, stirs something inside me.
"My aunt was a real foodie," Kira responds, a hint of emotion in her voice. Not surprising, considering the way she lost Masha. "She took me to nearly every Michelin-star restaurant across Europe. I learned to appreciate fine dining from a young age.” Kira flicks a quick, assessing glance my way as she takes a sip of the Chenin Blanc that was paired with this course.
“Thank you, Daria,” I say. “Everything has been outstanding so far.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” With a nod, Daria heads back to the kitchen and Kira sits back, smoothing the napkin in her lap.
“So, you’re on a first-name basis with the chef?” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s cute.”
I’m not sure what Kira is getting at. Yes, Daria is young and attractive, but our relationship is strictly professional. “It’s not cute, it’s business. Daria needed help to open this place, and I was in a position to help her.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “You don’t seem like the type to invest in small businesses. What’s in it for you?”
I lean back, scanning the restaurant’s sleek black-and-gold modern decor while a sultry beat injects life into the room. “Money. But investing in Probka isn’t only about financial returns. It's about supporting someone with real skill and vision. There’s not enough of that in today’s world.”
Kira carefully swipes her fork through the cauliflower purée and releases a little moan that travels straight to my dick.
"I agree." She arches an eyebrow. "And yet, you don’t seem that interested in the food. You haven’t even mentioned how well the yuzu and saffron taste together."
I huff out a dark laugh. "My background was far from this world of fine dining. I came from a place where any meal on the table was a blessing. So, while I enjoy these elaborate dishes, I'm not particularly picky about the specifics like yuzu and saffron."
Talking about my past isn't something I usually do—it opens doors to memories I'd rather keep at bay. But there's something about her genuine curiosity that makes me lower my guard.
She leans back, studying me. "So, from simple beginnings to the kingpin of Moscow’s bratvas," she muses. "That's a story I'd like to hear."
I ball my fists under the table. “It’s not a happy one.”
She raises her glass to me. “Who among us has a happy history? You know mine. It’s only fair that you tell me yours.”
Usually, I’d shut down any talk of my past, but fuck… Maybe it’s the wine or the way she’s looking up at me with those big, curious hazel eyes, but I don’t have it in me to deny her. “I was born in the Chertanovo district. They call it Moscow's forgotten periphery for a reason,” I say wryly. “My mother died when I was young—two or three years old. I don’t remember her. I was mostly raised by my paternal grandmother. My father too, but he’d come and go, never really a constant presence. But he taught me one valuable thing—how to fight.”
Kira leans forward, her expression intense. “Is that how you survived on the streets?”
“It was helpful for self-defense, but it was more valuable as a way to make money. There weren't many choices for moving up in life, not beyond stealing or drug dealing. So, I used my fight winnings to invest. I started small, with investments in real estate, gradually expanding to bigger, more lucrative deals as I built my empire."
What I don’t tell her is that her father, Oleg, was my introduction to the world of the bratva. But he was only that, an introduction. It was my work ethic, my drive, and my smartsthat opened doors in the underworld. But does Kira really want to hear about my short-lived connection to her asshole father? I doubt it.
For some reason, I don’t want to ruin this surprisingly normal moment between us.
“That’s quite a story,” she admits, holding eye contact. “Why do you keep your past so tightly guarded? You should be proud of the fact that you overcame a difficult childhood and made something of yourself.”
“Pride is a useless emotion. What good has it done anyone?”
I was proud of the life I had built, right up until I lost my son. After that, everything changed. Pride didn't bring him back nor heal the pain. The harsh reality is that life can be cruel and unforgiving, no matter who you are.
