Chapter 17 - Valentin
I lead Gela by her hand through the busy streets, and I’m thoroughly amused by how suspicious she looks. She keeps frowning at me like I’m about to lead her to some painful underground cult shit, when in fact, I’ve spent days arranging something nice for her.
But I don’t tell her that, because I’m a nervous wreck and fear she might not like it. I’ve thrown myself in the deep end now, and pray the night goes well.
“Are you kidnapping me again?” she asks, and her tone tells me she’s only half-joking.
I roll my eyes.
“If I were kidnapping you, would I tell you it's a surprise? I’d just kidnap you, wouldn’t I?” I open the passenger door for her with a flourish and wave her inside.
She slides in, and I try not to stare at the creamy skin that catches my eye from the way her skirt rides up. I close the door for her and shake off the murky, dangerous thoughts lingering in my head.
Today, there is no agenda. I’m keeping it old-school and clean. All I want is to celebrate Gela Jones, and it’ll be good for me to remember that, even while she wears that way-too-tight skirt that clings to every curve on her ass.
I pull into traffic and keep deflecting every question she throws at me.
“Oh, come on, just tell me where we’re going!”
“No chance.” I throw her a grin, and catch myself skipping a breath. The evening sun spins her brown hair golden, and I realize that in my forty-one years of life, no woman’s made me catch my breath the way Gela Jones does.
“At least give me a hint,” she pleads.
“Why don’t you figure it out for yourself?” I say, as I turn onto a street lined with neon signs and well-dressed people waiting in lines.
“Oh my god! Are we going to a concert?” Her eyes light up.
“Not exactly,” I say, feeling my heart flutter. Why didn’t I think this through? Would a concert have been better?
She narrows her eyes. “If you're taking me to some underground Russian rock band that screams about vodka and revolution, I swear—”
“Your faith in my taste is truly touching,” I laugh, pulling up to a valet stand. “We're here.”
The valet opens her door before I can get around, and Gela steps out, looking up at the understated facade of The Blue Note, one of Boston's liveliest jazz clubs. The blue neon sign glows softly against the darkening sky.
“Oh my god! A jazz club?” She sounds genuinely surprised as I hand my keys to the valet, and I feel my shoulders relax to see her happy.
“What, you thought I only listened to the sounds of men begging for mercy?” I joke.
She rolls her eyes, but also smiles, and her face lights up. “I just didn't take you for a jazz guy.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Gela Jones.” I offer my arm, which she takes without hesitation. That small gesture, that lack of hesitation in itself, promises a good night ahead.
The moment we step inside, the club wraps around us like a velvet blanket. The lighting is perfect and oh-so-soft, the conversation hushed and full of secrets, and the smooth notes of the saxophone a delight to the ears.
“Mr. Yuri,” the hostess greets me when she sees me. “Your usual table is ready.”
Gela's eyebrows shoot up. “Your usual table?”
“I come here with friends sometimes,” I explain, and we follow the hostess to our table. Along the way, I see a few acquaintances and nod my hello’s, not wanting to stop when Gela’s with me.
Our table is in the corner with a perfect view of the stage, and within a minute of us settling in, the bottle of champagne arrives.
“Wait.” Gela tries to turn to motion at the retreating waiter. “We didn’t order this.”
I lean across the table and gently place my hand over hers to bring her attention back to mine. When I do, I feel a spark of light shoot up to my elbow, and when she turns with that startled look, I feel like she felt it too.
“I ordered it in advance,” I say.
“You planned this?” Her eyebrows shoot up, and she quickly pulls away her hand. I hadn’t even noticed I still had it beneath mine.
“I had a feeling you'd nail the SkyMark deal,” I said, grabbing the bottle and pouring us both a glass each.
“You did?” she gushes.
“To Gela Jones.” I raise my glass, “marketing genius and tamer of corporate giants.”
She clinks her glass against mine, a pretty little blush creeping up her neck. “You really have way too much faith in me if you ordered us a Dom.”
“I've seen you work. You're unstoppable when you want something.” I take a sip, watching her over the rim of my glass. “That's something I admire about you.”
God, she looks beautiful with the light playing across her features in this dim room.
“Well, thank you for this.” She gestures around. “It's... unexpected.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Definitely good,” she smiles, relaxing into her chair. “Though I'm still trying to picture you sitting here with your friends, brooding over your problems while listening to jazz.”
“What? Hey! I don't always brood,” I protest dramatically. “Sometimes I reminisce about my wild youth.”
She nearly chokes on her champagne. “Your wild youth? Oh, please tell me more about what you did in those ancient times!”
“Careful, Gela Jones,” I tease back. “I've had more fun during my time than you've ever known. You see, when I was your age, I didn’t work half as hard.”
She leans forward with a playful challenge, smacked right across her face. “Oh, really? You, of all the people in the world, had fun? That’s hard to believe unless you prove it.”
I match her posture, close enough now that I’m hyperaware of how easy it would be for me to kiss her, how easy it would be to tell her all that’s running through my mind, but I don’t want to scare her off yet. “When I was your age, I once stole a yacht.”
“You did not!” she gasps, clutching her chest in true shock.
“I did, too!” I nod proudly. “It belonged to some Italian businessman. My brothers and I took it out for a spin in the Mediterranean, and we had to jump ship near Ibiza when the coast guard spotted us.”
Her mouth drops open. “You're making this up. Please tell me you’re making this up!”
“Want more?” I grin. “I've raced motorcycles through the streets of Moscow at midnight. Climbed the outside of a hotel to crash a royal wedding. And I once spent three days at a rave in Berlin without sleeping.”
“Okay, okay,” she laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “I get it. You weren't always the serious crime lord.”
“I was not.” I tilt my head to agree. “But I have to say, you looked more shocked by these stories than you did when I told you I was Bratva.”
At that, she laughs. Wholeheartedly. Wipes at her tears. Her laugh is so infectious that soon, both of us are wiping at our tears.
I pour her some more champagne, and soon, the band transitions into a new song, something slow and sultry with a deep bass. Gela's eyes light up, and she straightens in her seat.
“I love this song,” she whispers, staring at the band in the distance.
Her face looks like it’s yearning, and the fact that she might want something I’m unable to give her crushes at my soul. On some stupid impulse, I throw back my chair and stand.
She looks up at me in surprise.
I extend my hand. “Dance with me.”
“Here?” She looks confused.
“No, in the parking lot,” I tease. “Yes, here. Of course, here.”
“I'm not much of a dancer.” She laughs as she stands, but the fact that she takes my hand tells me I made the right move.
“Neither am I,” I say as I lead her to the floor. “But we can be terrible together.”
There are a few other couples swaying to the music on the dance floor. When I pull her close, her body fits against mine perfectly, like she was made to be there.
My palm finds the curve of her back, fingers closing around her hand with the other. She sets her free hand on my shoulder, and just like that, we’re in motion.
“See? Not so terrible,” I murmur.
She laughs softly. “Give it time.”
The saxophone wails a lonely, beautiful note, and I spin her out suddenly. She gasps, surprised, but trusts me with her heart, and when I spin her back in, she moves like a ripple, crashing against my chest, her hand on my shoulder.
“I thought you said you didn’t know how to dance!” she says breathlessly, her eyes sparkling.
“When you’ve attended as many weddings as I have, you pick up a couple of moves.”
“Oh.” She shakes her head in mock offence. “This is more than a couple of moves.”
As the music picks up tempo, I spin her faster, enjoying how freely she laughs. Her eyes close as she gives herself over to the rhythm, and I'm struck by how carefree she looks in this moment.
It’s a beautiful feeling. Just us, moving together.
When I dip her low toward the end of the song, her lock with mine. There's a moment, suspended in time, where everything else fades away, and all I see is Gela in my arms, looking up at me with those wide, dark eyes.
“You want to dance another?” I ask, hoping she’ll say yes.
She nods, and we dance through three more songs. We return to our table only when the band decides to take a break.
Her cheeks are still flushed, and there's a lightness in her movements that wasn't there before. I don’t know where the hours pass, but we finish the bottle of champagne and talk about everything under the sun.
I tell her more stories from my youth, and she tells me all about what it was like growing up in Minnesota.
It's easy, natural, as if we've known each other forever.
When we finally leave, the night is still young.
“I'm starving,” she groans. “Dancing works up an appetite.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
She thinks for a moment, then her eyes light up. “What about Tacos? But not the fancy kind. I want those greasy, messy, delicious street tacos.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Street tacos?”
“Don't tell me you’re afraid of a little street food?”
“Oh, just wait till I tell you about that time in Mexico.” I take her arm and lead her to a food truck I know, tucked away on a side street, but always with a line of locals.