Chapter Twenty-One
In which Violet Meets the Family.
Violet…
Date night.
That's all the card says, just two words in Roman's blocky handwriting.
The expensive piece of stationary is on my bed, sitting on top of a pile of clothes; an ankle length midnight blue dress, with a slit that rises to scandalous proportions on the left side and a halter top.
No room for a bra, I notice, rolling my eyes.
I'm grateful the halter has some padding, at least, because my girls like a little support.
Underneath there's a box with a pair of gladiator style sandals, and under that, another note.
Wear your hair up.
I tap the note against my palm. A nice dress, but not too fancy, so no super high-end restaurant. The sandals… no heel, so I could walk or run in them. I hate not knowing his plan, but I have no choice but to just go along with it.
By now, Roman must know that the hardest possible thing for me is to, "just go along with it." I haven't gotten where I am in life by being passive and letting other people take control but maybe I can, just for tonight.
Roman is waiting for me in the front hall right at six, infuriatingly gorgeous in jeans and a white linen button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. He takes my hand and I think he's going to kiss it, instead he pulls me in for a hug, burying his nose in my neck and breathing deeply.
"Are you sniffing me?" I ask, half laughing, half turned on.
I can feel his chest expand with air and his cool breath on my skin as he replies, "Absolutely. You smell almost as good as you taste."
"Roman!" I say with a hasty glance around us, hoping no one heard him. My sisters are out, along with Roman's plethora of guards.
"How does the dress feel?" he asks, spinning me in a circle. "You look edible in this."
"Very comfortable. And with the slit in the skirt, I can make a break for it if you get serious about the 'edible' comment." I'd put my hair up in a chignon with some strands loose around my face, minimal jewelry, and makeup, except for mascara and dramatic eyeliner.
"Excellent," he says with a smile I can only describe as avaricious.
When he leads me out to the garage, he walks past the Range Rover and the Bugatti to a sleek black motorcycle.
I've always liked the look of motorcycles, but they're so loud and the way they nimbly weave in and out of traffic on crowded New York streets is always vaguely terrifying to watch.
He hands me a helmet and I eye the bike, alarmed.
"Do you ride often?" I ask.
"My sweet Violet, it's too late to doubt me now."
"I do not find that at all reassuring," I snap back, but he only laughs, putting the helmet on my head and strapping it securely under my chin.
"Swing your right leg over the seat and tuck in your skirt, baby."
I jump a little when he starts the bike, the engine vibrating under my ass.
He pulls smoothly out of the driveway, and I settle myself on the seat, aware of how tightly my thighs are bracketing his and my arms are strangling his waist. He rides sedately down Commerce Street, and when we get to the thoroughfare, he makes a left and hits the gas as I scream.
"No screaming unless we're about to be decapitated by a garbage truck," he groans. "There's a microphone and an earpiece embedded in your helmet."
I wince. "Sorry, I thought I was just screaming into the wind.
That's pretty cool, being able to talk to each other.
" My nails dig into his abdomen as he sweeps past a truck changing lanes and then between two cars to beat the light.
Whenever I'd thought about riding on a motorcycle, I pictured something on the highway, the bike's steady roar with the wind in my hair.
Something semi-glamorous like "Sons of Anarchy," maybe.
Nothing like this.
The terror of every near miss, the adept movement of the bike between a construction zone and the street. The construction guys shouting, "Hey, nice bike!"
I lean with him as he cuts left, heading down an alley, and I see the surprised expressions of people hanging out on their balconies above us before he hits the next right, opening the throttle again.
There's something mesmerizing about it, the city speeding past us in vivid streaks of color with a symphony of honking and shouts, and the low, rumbling buzz of the motorcycle between my legs.
My nipples are getting hard and I can only hope Roman can't feel them pressed against his back because I know that would please the hell out of him.
After fifteen minutes of near-death twists and turns, we pull up in front of a walled garden. The high brick walls show only the tops of some beautiful greenery and two magnolia trees that are still holding their flowers in the summer heat.
I try to swing my leg off the bike and nearly topple sideways before Roman catches me around the waist. "Easy," he chuckles.
"It takes a minute to get your legs back.
" He takes my helmet from me and smooths back my hair, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"Your eyes are so bright," he says, his voice husky. "Like the gold of the sunset."
"That's very poetic." There's a deep voice behind us. "Shall we eat before Roman's inner Shakespeare gets loose?"
We turn to greet the couple behind us. Dmitri, I recognize from the fundraiser and his wife Ava. She has her arm linked with his and she's smiling at me with friendly curiosity.
"Hey," she holds out her hand, "I'm Ava, it's so nice to meet you. I've heard about Hope House." She pauses as Dmitri gives a low growl. "We can talk about Hope House later. If I don't get food for my husband, he's going to become something extremely unpleasant."
"That's true," Roman agrees. "Dmitri gets hangry, and when a man has access to long range missiles that seems like pushing your luck. You really don't want someone like that getting low blood sugar."
The ma?tre d' standing at the little podium by the open iron gate pretends not to hear us.
"Dmitri Morozov," he says, shaking my hand. "Good to meet you, Violet." He's handsome, like Roman, with the same formidable height and thickly muscled build. As he looks down at Ava, though, there's an immense tenderness in his expression that makes him much less intimidating.
Inside the walls, the garden explodes into bloom around us.
I've always thought there were probably a million of these hidden pieces of magic sprinkled throughout the city, but actually finding one is so exciting.
There are beautiful trees and flowers spilling out of urns, with stone statues in little alcoves. .
"Hidden away, like a secret to be found," I whisper. Roman's arm slides around my waist and he squeezes me gently.
The garden holds only ten tables, and while they're covered with white linen tablecloths and elegant little flower arrangements, it still has a very "backyard host" feel, reinforced as the hostess shows us to our table.
"You might want to take a little walk around the garden after dinner," she says. "This is one of the largest private gardens in Manhattan." Nodding toward Dmitri, she smiles. "It's helpful when the chef is friends with the biggest real estate developer in the city."
"Your family's in real estate?" I ask Roman.
"Among other things," he gives me a wink.
"Sex and gun things," I whisper, pinching his side as he smothers a chuckle. The men are about to pull out chairs for Ava and me when another couple arrives, the man's long legs slowing down to match the shorter ones of his wife.
"Oh, it's so nice to have dinner together!
" the woman beams. She's almost startlingly beautiful, with pale green eyes and black hair.
I can see Roman takes after her, right down to those thick, long lashes of his which are absurd and unreasonable for a man to have.
She turns to me. "Hello, it's a pleasure to meet you, Violet. I'm Ella, Roman and Dmitri's mother."
"The resemblance is pretty convincing," I say, squeezing her outstretched hand. "Lovely to meet you too."
"Maksim Morozov." A large hand comes toward me with a certain menace that makes me wonder if he intends to shake my hand or choke me with it.
"Hello," I say, gingerly putting my fingers in his before deciding to be brave and do the man handshake thing - shoving my hand against his until the space between our thumbs meet - and I squeeze his knuckles as hard as he squeezes mine.
Maksim raises his brow in a way that is strikingly similar to Roman's, and a quick quirk passes his lips that might be construed as a smile. "Let's sit down," he says. "It will be good to catch up."
I notice during the introductions that both Roman and Dmitri have rigid posture, their shoulders straight like they're fresh out of military school. When they see their father - sort of - smile at me, the energy around the table instantly calms.
We start with scallops with cloudberry and salmon caviar, a taste so sublime that I'm having trouble keeping up with the conversation.
"Are you all right?" Roman leans close, brushing his shoulder against mine.
"I'm having a conversation with the caviar," I sigh lovingly.
By the time the brioche with duck and Kamchatka crab is served, dusk is falling over the garden, the last of the sun's rays lighting up the flowers in the planters with one last burst of glory as the candles on the table burn brighter, illuminating everyone's smiles.
Ava's passed her phone around, showing the latest pictures of Lev, her and Dmitri's extremely adorable baby.
"So, Roman tells us you have two sisters?" Ella asks.
"Twins, they just graduated from high school," I smile proudly. "Straight A's. Rose and Iris."
"Rose, Iris, Violet…" Ava chuckles. "Is your mother a botanist?"
"My mother's name is Poppy. She had hippie parents," I shake my head. "We never stood a chance. It could be worse, she wanted a boy so she could name him Hibiscus."
"I think they're beautiful names," Ava says, tapping her wine glass to mine.