Chapter 20 Petyr
PETYR
I pull up outside Paganini’s and throw the keys to the valet, Tony. He catches them on the fly, like he always does.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Gubarev,” he salutes.
I nod at him, then open the car door for Sima.
At the same moment, Marcello appears at the top of the stairs.
“Petyr!” he says warmly, coming down to greet me.
He claps me on the shoulder once, his grip firm and friendly.
If anybody else tried that, I’d have their hand mounted on the fireplace, but this is Marcello we’re talking about.
We go way back. “It’s been too long since you’ve graced my dining room. ”
“Been busy,” I reply.
“When aren’t you?” He lets out a booming laugh. “And this must be the new missus I’ve been hearing so much about!”
I turn to Sima just in time to see her stepping out of the car.
She holds my outstretched hand and rises, graceful like a nymph, her black cocktail dress hugging her in all the right places.
Her caramel hair catches the warm light spilling from the entrance, and her eyelashes curve gently as she tilts her head in greeting.
For a second, I have to remind myself this isn’t about me enjoying the view.
Marcello’s eyes drink Sima in. He was never shy about appreciating beautiful women. He’s lucky I know how devoted he is to his wife; otherwise, I’d have to forcefully remind him to keep his hands off other people’s brides.
“Incantato,” he says, bending as if to kiss her hand but wisely not touching it with his lips. “I see the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?” Sima asks.
“That you’re as beautiful as a goddess.”
“She’s married, Marcello,” I remind him. “As are you.”
“Then what do you say I give the happy couple the royal treatment tonight?” He claps his hands once. “Come! I have your favorite table ready.”
I hook my arm through Sima’s and lead her through the doors.
As we cross the dining room, her eyes look ready to fall out of their sockets. The crystal chandeliers and frescoed ceilings tend to have that effect, but Sima doesn’t look like she’s just appreciating the status. If anything, she seems to be drinking in the beauty of it, the art.
She’s the first date I’ve brought here who ever has.
“You really didn’t need to go through this much trouble,” she murmurs, starstruck. “I really would have been fine with falafel.”
“Don’t let Marcello hear you say that. He’ll have a stroke.”
“I’m serious,” she insists. “It’s too much.”
“Nothing’s too much for my wife,” I say without thinking. When I glance at Sima next, her cheeks are the same color as the carpet. “Besides, we skipped the wedding dinner. No reception, no cake. Consider this my way of making up for it.”
“Fine,” she huffs eventually. “But I’m not getting the caviar. I don’t want to train my palate to enjoy the finer things in life too much.”
The reason for that hangs between us. We’re on a deadline, she and I, and we both know it.
I push that thought aside and follow Marcello to our table. “Ta-da!” he says theatrically. “Best table in the house, reserved for you as always.”
It’s a corner booth with a view of the whole restaurant on one side, and of Manhattan on the other.
“‘Reserved for you’?” Sima mouths as Marcello plucks two menus for us. “As in, it’s always available? In case you get peckish on short notice?”
I raise an eyebrow. Sima takes it for an answer and whistles quietly. “Wow. Maybe I will have the caviar.”
“You heard the lady,” I tell Marcello once he returns. “Two rounds of seafood appetizers and a bottle of your finest white. What’s the pasta of the day?”
“Linguine allo scoglio,” he says, kissing the tips of his fingers for flair. “With clams fresh off the water.”
“Perfect.”
Once he’s gone, Sima eyes me curiously. “Did you just order for me?”
“Is that a problem?”
“I’m… not sure,” she admits, brow wrinkled in confusion. “I always thought I’d hate it if a guy did that.”
“And did you?”
She opens her mouth, but doesn’t reply right away. “I…” She clears her throat, looking anywhere but my face. A delicious flush colors her cheeks. “I guess I’m a fan of linguini. So you get off scot-free—this time.”
“I see.” Suddenly, pasta is the last thing I want. “Then you won’t mind this, either.”
I pull out her chair. She stares like it’s the first time this has ever happened to her. Which I suppose it is, considering last night’s confession that I’m her first.
Her first. The more I think about it, the hungrier it makes me feel.
She’s about to accept my gesture and sit down, when—
“Petyr.” A male voice. Not as warm as Marcello’s but still cordial. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Thought you’d be on your honeymoon.”
I turn and see who spoke to me. “Serge.” I tilt my head slightly in greeting. “Duty calls, even to newlyweds.”
“Don’t I know that.” He fixes his gaze on Sima. “Apologies for missing the wedding. Like you said, duty often doesn’t care about one’s calendar.”
“Then allow me to introduce you to my wife…” Sima, I almost say before catching myself. “… Sammi.”
But when I look for Sima at my side, I find her halfway hidden behind me. Not overtly enough that Serge notices, but enough that I notice.
“A pleasure,” he says gallantly, with a slight bow at the waist.
Sima nods. “L-Likewise.”
“I’ll let you get back to your dinner.” He smiles politely at us both. “Enjoy your night.”
Once he’s gone, I turn to Sima with a skeptical face. “What was that?”
“What?” she blurts defensively. “I’m not a people’s person. I get shy.” She crosses her arms. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Yes, I think but don’t say. Instead, I pull out her chair fully and let her settle in.
Serge Markov, pakhan of the Markov Bratva. I’m not aware of any ties between them and the Danilos, though. Sima was probably just spooked by him being Bratva at all.
Because she knows what he is. She definitely knows.
Our appetizers arrive. Sima bites into a caviar bruschetta and makes a face like she’s finally getting that orgasm I denied her an hour ago. “Oh. My. God. I am never going back to burgers.”
I bring a slice of sea bass carpaccio to my lips and smirk. “If you’re still hungry, we can stop by Burger King after.”
“Never.” She sucks on an oyster. The sight is so filthy I have to close my fist around the tablecloth for restraint. “You eat like this every day?”
“Not every day, no. But Dimitri and I used to come here every week.”
“Dimitri?”
“My brother.” The next bite turns to ashes on my tongue. “He’s the one who introduced me to the place. Said they made the best seafood in town.”
Sima’s face turns warm. “Maybe he can join us, then? One day?”
Mine turns grim. “He’s been in a coma for a week. Doctors doubt he’ll ever wake up.”
I watch Sima’s mouth turn to stone. Her smile cracks and falls. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” she stammers, sounding sincere. “I for—I mean, I didn’t know.”
“No reason you should.” Except there is. Because your family did it. “It happened in the same accident that killed my father. I suppose Dimitri had better luck. Or worse, depending on what you think of comas.”
Sima looks genuinely upset. For some reason, it lands like a sucker punch.
But that’s followed by anger. How can I believe her? Her own father gave the order. For all I know, her own psycho brother pulled the trigger.
The look on her face doesn’t reek of lies, though. And it doesn’t go away, no matter how hard I stare.
“His coma… it’s irreversible, then?” she whispers.
“Not on paper.” I set down my fork, my appetite gone. “But the longer he’s in it, the slimmer his chances are.”
“I’m sorry.” Sima reaches across the table. Her delicate fingers brush mine. “It sounds like you really care for him.”
I don’t know why I answer honestly. “I do. We were really close growing up.”
“Must be weird not having him around.”
“It is.” I clear my throat, force the lump back down. “He was always there for me.”
“You miss him?”
“Yeah.” I reach for the wine just to have an excuse to break contact with her. “Guess I do.”
“I can’t imagine what it would be like. To lose two big parts of your world in a single day like that.”
“It was different with my father.” I have no idea why I’m indulging her curiosity. But the words seem to tumble out of me, as if they’d been waiting to be let out all along. “He was a good leader, but not much of a parent. Couldn’t step out of his pakhan shoes long enough to be one.”
“Tough love?”
“‘Tough’ something.”
“I get what you mean.” She swirls her wine, gaze distant. “When I was growing up, my dad wasn’t big on hugs, either.”
That’s when I see it—an opportunity. “What was he like?”
She drops her fork. “Huh?”
“Your father. You said he’s not the affectionate type.” I lean forward slightly, seizing back the power in the conversation. “What’s he like, then?”
For a handful of seconds, Sima just babbles, mouth opening and closing around random sounds. “My dad, he…” She swallows a long sip of wine. When she speaks again, her voice is suddenly much smoother. “He passed away in a car accident when I was twelve. My mom, too.”
She’s lying. Even if I didn’t already know it for certain, I’d be able to tell right away. Her story sounds practiced, like she’s spent the past decade telling it to herself in front of a mirror. Her facial expressions are all wrong, too. There’s no sign of sorrow, no sign of grief.
It shouldn’t piss me off, but it does.
“Twelve, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a young age to be orphaned. You went into the system, then?”
She shakes her head confidently. “My grandmother took me in. She looked after me for a while, then died the year I turned eighteen. I’ve been on my own ever since.”
Lies. More fucking lies.
“Must have been hard.”
“It was.” She lifts her glass slightly, as if jokingly going for a toast. “But it all led me here, so…”
Annoyance bubbles under the surface, but I keep it locked tight. I wasn’t meaning to share tonight, but when I did, it was real. Actual pieces of me, things I hadn’t yet told anybody.
And while I’m certainly not expecting her to bare her heart to me and come clean, being fed bullshit after being nothing but honest with her… It’s fucking irritating.
But this is the game we’re playing, I remind myself. A game of lies and deceit. A race to whoever breaks first.
And it sure as fuck won’t be me.
I raise my own glass. “To us, then.”
Sima’s surprise is quickly replaced by a smile. An actress’ smile—all lips and no teeth. “To us.”
We toast to each other’s lies.