Chapter 12 #2
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize two things. One—it’s true. And two—that's a problem. Because I don't do marriage and relationships. Once burnt, twice shy.
Kira grips the edge of the table and gives me an unreadable look.
Blyat. I curse internally, pushing my wine glass away. Clearly I’ve drunk too much. “Tell me stories about Masha jet-setting you off to fabulous restaurants.”
She freezes, her glass of wine halfway to her mouth. She lowers it and stares at me through narrowed eyes. It's like I've asked her to reveal state secrets rather than happy memories of her childhood.
“Why do you want to know about that?”
I shrug. “Why not? I’m sure you have some good stories.”
She leans her jaw into her hand, and looks away from me briefly as if cataloging her memories. Finally, her lips quirk upwards. “She once took me to Australia for three days so we could try pavlova in the country it was invented.”
“Pavlova? Like, the meringue dessert?”
“It was her favorite.” She tilts her head, focused on her next bite. “Little known fact: pavlova is named after Anna Pavlova, the Russian ballerina, but it was invented in Australia or New Zealand. There’s some debate over where.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Do you like ballet?”
“I like it as much as the next man. I can appreciate it as an art form, but it’s not exactly my idea of a good time.”
“So what’s your idea of a good time then? I haven’t seen you do anything for fun.”
My idea of fun is pummeling an opponent in the ring, torturing a confession out of traitors, and orchestrating hostile business takeovers. “I like golf,” I tell her.
“Bullshit.” She snorts. “Haven’t seen you play a game once.”
“I’m a busy man. Recently married, actually.” I wink at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Newlywed life running you off your feet?”
“Something like that.” I bring the glass of wine to my lips, not taking my eyes off of her. “And what about you? What do you do for fun?”
Her fingers toy with the edge of her napkin, a wistful look crossing her face. "I used to dance ballet, you know. Not professionally, but it was something I did for fun."
"Dancing, huh?" The disciplined precision of ballet contrasts with her stubborn, brash personality, but I like that she’s a contradiction. "Why did you stop?"
Kira shrugs, her gaze drifting off. "Life, I guess. Responsibilities. Family stuff.”
I can read between the lines. Her asshole of a father was becoming more unstable, and she had to step up to take the reins.
“Do you miss it?"
"Not as much as you’d think. The instructors were always telling me to lose ten pounds, and it pissed me off.
" She exhales softly. “To be honest, what I liked most about it was that my aunt loved to watch me dance.” She looks over at me as if gauging my reaction.
“Masha loved the arts—any form, really. Dancing, singing, theater, visual arts. She always came to my final recitals with two dozen red roses and a bottle of champagne. Not sure the nuns at my school appreciated the champagne as much as I did.”
“Masha was one of a kind,” I say, stretching my legs under the table. “You’re a lot like your aunt.”
Kira’s brows pull together, and she looks at me like she’s weighing everything I’ve said.
“How well did you know her?” Kira’s voice sounds accusatory.
Does she think I had a thing with her aunt? She was a beautiful woman, but it was never like that. “I didn’t know her that well, only in passing.”
“Did you know my father—”
Before she can finish the thought, the grating voice of Mayor Rashnikov assaults my ears, ruining the moment.
“Maxim, never thought I’d see you here, but it’s a pleasure nonetheless.”
By here, he means a hot new restaurant that attracts the glitterati. He’s right—despite it being a good investment, it’s definitely not my scene, mostly because douchebags like him are regular guests.
I turn, barely concealing my irritation with a nod. "Funny. I'm not surprised to find you here." I take a sip of my wine. "Where's Zoya?"
He pulls a face. "At home, where wives should be," he says dismissively.
Kira's expression sours.
Pyotr's attention shifts to her, his eyes bright with unwelcome eagerness. "And who might this be?"
"My wife," I say, letting the word hang for a moment for my own satisfaction, then add, “Kira, may I introduce you to Mayor Pyotr Rashnikov?”
Kira, keeping her poise, offers a restrained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes as she extends her hand and murmurs, “Nice to meet you.”
Pyotr, seizing the opportunity, grasps her hand and leans down to kiss the back of it.
She stiffens noticeably, and it takes all my control to not to stab him with the steak knife beside my plate.
"Ah, yes, the young beauty everyone in the city is talking about.
I regret missing your wedding; I was away on business," Rashnikov claims, though his kind of business likely involves gambling and whoring. "I’m hosting a dinner at my house soon. You and Kira must come.” A smarmy grin spreads across his face as his eyes drag over Kira.
As much as I loathe the mayor, interacting with him is an unavoidable part of doing business in this city, be it above or below the law.
“We'll see if our schedule allows it.” I give him a terse get-out-of-here nod.
“Excellent! I'll have my secretary send over the details to Nadya.”
“Perfect,” I deadpan.
Pyotr shifts his attention back to Kira. “I must have been living under a rock to miss that Maxim snagged a young gem like you. I look forward to getting better acquainted with you, Kira.”
My hand wraps around the knife and before I’m conscious of it, I’m standing, about to plunge the blade into his carotid artery because how dare he fucking look and talk about my wife that way.
“Maxim,” Kira hisses, her sharp tone snapping me back to reality.
Seizing the moment, the mayor quickly excuses himself, disappearing into the crowd.
Once he’s out of sight, Kira hits me with a questioning look. “What was that?”
I sink back into my chair and signal the waiter for a whiskey. “That’s the mayor of fucking Moscow.” I spit.
“God help us all.” She pulls a face.
“I can’t stand him," I confess, swirling my wine. “Pyotr plays dirty. He's got incriminating info on almost everyone in this city. Uses blackmail, threats, whatever it takes to get what he wants. He’s not a man of honor.”
“Isn’t that a common tactic in business, politics, whatever?” Her eyes bounce over to where he’s holding court with a group of men.
I sigh, grateful that my whiskey has shown up. "True, it's common, but Pyotr takes it to another level. He doesn’t just play dirty—he revels in it, using people's vulnerabilities to his advantage without any moral code. Even bad men like me have lines we don't cross, but he has no such boundaries."
She smiles tightly, her eyes hardening. “Really? You want to talk about boundaries? Should we call up Aly and ask her about your moral code?”
I gnash my teeth. Would Kira believe me if I said I acted in what I believed were my daughter’s best interests? Yes, my methods were shitty, but it was all in the name of protecting Alyona and giving her a better life.
“I did what I thought was best for her at the time,” I grit out. "But I don't want you anywhere near Rashnikov. He’s especially slimy when it comes to beautiful young women.”
She swallows and eases back in her chair, her eyes drifting to the mayor. "But you do business with him, right?”
“I can’t avoid it.”
“Then I suppose we can’t avoid his dinner.”
Her words give me pause. There's a note in her voice I can't quite place.
“We’ll see,” I say. “Now, put on your brightest smile. The paparazzi are waiting outside and require one more show.”