Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
BIANCA
Daniil is driving, and I can’t stop stealing glances at him.
This is the first time I’ve seen him behind the wheel of a car, and it shouldn’t be this sexy, should it?
But the way he steers the Audi like it’s an extension of himself, maneuvering through the streets of Brooklyn with exacting control, looking like a cross between a movie star and a motorcycle gang member—no, like a movie star playing a motorcycle gang member—is hot as hell.
He’s dressed down in ripped jeans and a white T-shirt that hugs every hard plane of his torso, leaving his full arm sleeves on display.
I swallow hard, and look out the window, distracting myself from ogling Daniil by watching Brooklyn come alive at night. This place has such a different vibe than Miami, but I like it. More edge, less glitz and glamor, which suits me fine. Not like I’ll be here forever.
But this dinner is a step in the right direction. For whatever reason, he’s softened towards me, and I’m going to take full advantage of the chance to have him open up.
Beside me, Daniil clears his throat. Turning towards him, I catch him dragging his gaze down my body. “You look nice,” he says, adjusting his position on the buttery leather seat. But the way he’s looking at me doesn’t suggest that nice is the most accurate word. More like smoking hot.
I suppress a smile as I wave my hands in front of me in a this-old-thing gesture.
I’m wearing a sky-blue halter dress with the fitted top showing the perfect amount of cleavage while the defined waist gives way to a flared skirt with a slit on one side.
It’s not over-the-top sexy, but it shows enough skin and flatters my hourglass figure.
A rush of warmth floods my veins as I carefully cross my left thigh over my right, so he can get a peek of smooth brown thigh. If this is my only chance to seduce my husband, I am going to make the best of it.
He cracks his neck and brings his focus back to the road ahead.
Score one for me!
Daniil pulls to the curb in front of a little restaurant tucked away on a nondescript street.
This is no grand steak house or five-star Michelin eatery that I imagine he frequents.
Then again, looking at him tonight, he seems like a regular guy.
Minus his souped-up Audi with bulletproof windows, he looks like any other handsome young Brooklynite going about their evening.
Entering the restaurant, we’re whisked from the front door to a cozy table on the charming back patio.
Fairy lights twinkle overhead, and red checkered tablecloths are draped beneath empty wine bottles that function as candleholders.
While we’re the only ones on this patio tonight, which I know was Daniil’s doing, it still feels like a night out.
A waiter comes over to us, bearing water and wine, and Daniil says to him, “The usual, Sal.”
“You got it, kid.”
“Kid!” I scoff as Sal trudges towards the kitchen. “I take it you’re a regular here?”
“You could say that.” His lips turn up at the corners, and he adds, “I’ve been coming here for half of my life. It’s one of the few places where I can relax and not feel like the world is breathing down my neck.”
And yet, he brought me here. To his haven.
I shouldn’t read into it, but I can’t help the rush of warmth that floods my system.
I still don’t understand what’s going on here.
He’s attracted to me, that much is clear, but weeks of ignoring me, and now an intimate dinner?
Maybe I’m being paranoid, but why the change of heart?
“So … what gives?” I ask, taking a sip from my wineglass. “What are we doing here?”
He huffs a little laugh and runs his thumb over his bottom lip. “We’re having dinner.” His voice is low and sexy, like the purr of an engine, and my thighs clench together in response.
“You know what I mean,” I counter.
He’s quiet for a moment, staring off into the distance before his eyes find mine and something in his expression changes. “I didn’t like hearing that you're unhappy, that you’re lonely.”
I bite back the wave of emotion his words bring on. How long has it been since someone’s actually cared how I feel? I almost don’t know what to do with his concern.
“It’s not that I’m miserable here, or with you in particular, it’s …” This life. But how can I tell Daniil that? He’s fully entrenched in the world I want to get far away from.
“I get it, more than you know,” he says, focusing on swirling the wine in his glass.
The weight of his full attention settles heavily on me, even as a team of waiters delivers what seems to be half the menu to our table. There’s pizza of course, but also eggplant Parm, Caesar salad, and spaghetti and meatballs. It all looks so good.
“Why did your uncle raise you after your parents died?” he asks, putting a slice of pepperoni on my plate.
“I didn’t have a choice.” I smooth the napkin in my lap and lift the slice, but don’t actually eat it.
It’s simply an excuse to keep my hands busy while I consider how much to reveal.
“Emilio was the only living relative I had, and I was still a minor. It was either become a ward of the state or live with him.”
He brings the glass of wine to his lips, and studies me over the rim. “Were you close?”
“No,” I say a little too quickly, venom coating that one word.
“I hadn’t even met him before I was sent to live with him.
My mother left Colombia when she was young.
Abuelito had a great love for my mother and didn’t want her tainted by the ugliness he was involved in.
It was only getting more violent as the Colombians went to war with the Mexicans.
My mother wanted out, and Florida made sense.
She enrolled at the University of Miami and met my father in their journalism program, fell in love, and the rest is history. She never went back home.”
A tragic history.
“Did you know about the Zegas? That your uncle ended up taking over the cartel?”
“Not really,” I shrug. “My mother hinted that her brother was involved in some shady stuff, but no details. I only learned all that after …” After it was much too late.
Daniil nods, and then holds a slice up for me to take a bite. “Here, try it. Brooklyn-style pizza. Thinner and crispier crust.”
“You don’t need to feed me!” I protest.
“I want to,” he insists. “Open up.”
I do as he says, opening my mouth and leaning forward to take a bite. His intent eyes watch me closely. Damn, as promised, this pizza is amazing.
“Printsessa,” Daniil murmurs, his presence cutting into my thoughts. I press a napkin to my lips as I swallow the saucy deliciousness. “Have I told you how pretty you look with your mouth full?”
“Oh my god,” I choke, reaching for my water, but he’s clearly enjoying making my cheeks warm.
“Come on,” he chides. “You have to admit, this pizza is pretty unreal.”
“It is,” I agree, though I look away from his heated stare.
I try to distract myself by taking in our surroundings, the string lights twinkling overhead, the picture-perfect little table all in a row.
Such a quaint place. When was the last time I had done something like this, something so normal?
Just a casual dinner out. Not since coming to live with my uncle.
“So, your parents were journalists?” He leans forward, and the intensity of his attention burns my skin.
I suddenly feel exposed. I hadn’t meant to share all that I had, but something about this Daniil—the one who takes me to a casual red-sauce joint and listens intently when I speak—is different.
Still, I’m on dangerous ground here. My parents were investigative journalists, the best at what they did.
But I don’t want him looking too closely at them, because if he does, it won’t take him long to connect the dots.
“I don’t like to think about the past, to be honest.” He nods, not pushing the issue.
Somehow, he’s asked all the questions tonight, when I’m the one who should be doing the deep dive into his life.
But I’m tired of always playing this game, rather than living my life, so I ask something I am genuinely curious about. “You don’t like my uncle, do you?”
The glow of candlelight glints off his light-brown hair, casting a shadow under his cut cheekbones as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “I don’t know your uncle enough to dislike him.”
“You don’t trust him or Jorge. Our wedding was proof enough. I want to know why.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he says with a frown. But there’s something behind his words I don’t buy.
“Including me?”
With a finger under my chin, he tilts my face up. “You most of all, printsessa.”
“Just because I didn’t want to marry you? Because I wanted to stay with Jorge?” I lean in close, so he doesn’t miss my words. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know. Ever hear that expression? For all I knew, you could have been the worse choice.”
His eyes drop to my lips. “And am I?”
I swallow hard. “No.” Not even close.
The truth of my words hits me directly in the solar plexus. Whatever Daniil is, and I haven’t made my mind up about him yet, he’s not what I expected. And I mean that in the best possible way.
We’re both quiet in the car on the way back to the penthouse. But as we approach his building, I feel his eyes on me, studying me with interest.
“What?” I say finally.
“I have to tell you something,” he says, pulling up to the curb. “I’m working with Días, laundering money through the casino. It was part of the deal made with your uncle when he insisted we marry.”
“Oh,” I say, keeping my voice steady. A weight pushes down on my chest as I meet his heavy gaze.
My arms break out in goose bumps. I’ve refused to think about Jorge being here in Brooklyn. It was easy to put it out of my mind while locked up in the penthouse all day, but Daniil’s words are a reminder that I haven’t escaped Jorge’s grasp. Not yet.