Chapter 7 Vera
VERA
The restaurant Misha brings me to looks expensive, all dark wood and brass fixtures, where you need reservations weeks in advance. Or a name—which I'm sure Misha has, though he's never told me his last name yet. Through the windows, I see white tablecloths and crystal glasses catching candlelight.
My stomach twists as he parks the car. I should've asked where we were going. The dress I chose suddenly feels inadequate—a simple black number I bought years ago for my cousin's wedding. It's the nicest thing I own, but against this backdrop, it screams bargain bin.
Misha steps out and comes around to open my door and offers me his hand.
I take it and step out with him into the cold winter air.
He wears a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, the jacket tailored to his lean frame.
His dark hair is combed back from his face, revealing those sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes that seem to see everything.
"You look beautiful," he says, and the way he looks at me makes me believe he means it.
"Thank you. You look…" I gesture helplessly at his appearance. "This place is incredible. Are you sure they'll have room for us?"
"I made reservations." He places his hand at the small of my back and guides me toward the entrance. "Trust me."
The hostess greets him by his first name and leads us through the dining room to a booth in the back corner. The table sits in a pocket of privacy, separated from other diners by a curved wall lined with books. Misha slides in across from me and signals the waiter.
"Two glasses of the Bordeaux," he says without consulting a menu. "And we'll have the duck confit and the lamb, medium rare."
The waiter nods and disappears. I stare at Misha across the table.
"You ordered for me." I think for a moment that I should be offended, that I should tell him I am well able to look at a menu and pick what I want. But the gesture seems sweet, not overbearing. And Misha is paying for this. No way I can afford it.
"You don't like duck?"
"I've never had duck. I don't know if I like it." My fingers nervously pluck at the buttons of my coat before I slide it from my shoulders.
"You'll love it. The chef here prepares it with cherry sauce and roasted vegetables. The lamb is excellent too—we can share both dishes."
I should be annoyed and insist on ordering my own meal, choosing my own wine. But the confidence in his voice, the way he seems to know exactly what will please me, sends warmth spreading through my chest instead of irritation.
"How can you be so sure?"
"You have good instincts about food. I watched you at lunch yesterday—you chose the healthiest option on the menu, but you were eyeing the more indulgent dishes. You want to try new things, but you're practical about spending money. Tonight, you can have both."
The wine arrives, deep red in crystal glasses that catch the flickering candlelight. Misha raises his glass to mine.
"To new experiences."
The wine is smoother than anything I've ever tasted, rich and complex on my tongue. I take another sip and feel my shoulders relax.
"Tell me about Ukraine," he says. "You mentioned your family immigrated when you were a teenager."
"We came here when I was seventeen. My father thought there would be better work opportunities, and my mother wanted us to learn Russian properly.
" I trace the rim of my wine glass. "We lived in a small village outside Kharkiv.
My father trained horses for local farmers, and I spent every day in the stables. "
"Is that where you learned to handle them so well?"
"Yes. I could ride before I could properly walk, according to my mother. She used to joke that I spoke horse better than Ukrainian."
"What happened to your mother?"
The familiar ache settles in my chest. "Cancer… Five years ago. The treatments here cost so much, but she refused to go back to Ukraine. She said we were Russians now, and Russians don't run from problems."
"She sounds strong."
"She was. Stubborn as a mule and twice as determined." I smile at the memory. "Elvin gets his fighting spirit from her."
"And you? What do you get from her?"
"The ability to worry about everyone except myself, apparently."
He laughs, a low sound that makes me want to hear it again. "That's not a weakness."
"Sometimes, it feels overwhelming. Taking care of Batya, making sure Elvin's treatments continue, keeping up with work…" I stop myself. I don't want to sound whiny on our first date.
"You're allowed to want things for yourself too," he says. "What do you want, Vera? If money weren't an issue, if your family was taken care of, what would make you happy?"
The duck arrives before I can answer, accompanied by roasted potatoes and green beans that glisten with butter. The cherry sauce pools around the meat, dark and glossy. My mouth waters.
"Try it," Misha says.
I cut a small piece and bring it to my mouth. The meat falls apart on my tongue, tender and rich, the cherry sauce adding sweetness that complements the gamey flavor. I close my eyes and savor the taste.
"Good?"
"Incredible. I had no idea food could taste this complex."
"Most people settle for simple when they could have extraordinary."
We eat without speaking for a few minutes. The lamb is equally impressive, seasoned with herbs I can't identify but that make every bite a discovery.
"You never answered my earlier question," Misha says. "What would make you happy?"
I consider the response while I sip my wine. "I'd like to travel. See places I've only read about in books. Maybe take a cooking class and learn to make dishes like this." I gesture toward our plates. "I'd want to live somewhere with space for a garden, maybe keep a few horses of my own."
"Those are good dreams."
"They're expensive dreams."
"Not impossible ones, though."
I meet his gaze across the table. "What about you? What makes you happy?"
"Control. Knowing that I can protect the people who matter to me. Building an enterprise that lasts." He pauses. "Good conversation over excellent wine."
"Is that what this is? Good conversation?"
"The best I've had in months."
The waiter refills our wine glasses. I should slow down—I'm not used to alcohol this strong—but the warmth in my stomach feels too good to stop.
"How long have you owned horses?" I ask.
"A few years now. I have three racing at Podsolnukh."
"They're beautiful animals," I say, remembering the names he gave me before. Though I thought they were owned by a woman, but I don’t know everything. "Do you work with them directly?"
"Sometimes. I help with grooming and exercise when the regular handlers are busy." His tone doesn't invite further inquiry about his business, so I don't press.
"Do you enjoy it? The racing world?" My finger runs around the ring of my glass as I watch his warm smile grow.
"I enjoy winning. The horses are simply the vehicle."
I lean forward, emboldened by the wine. "Are you always this cryptic, or is it part of your charm?"
"Would you prefer me to be boring and predictable?"
"No. I like that you're different from other men I've known. You make me feel…" I search for the right words. "You make me feel interesting. Important."
"You are interesting. And very important."
The intensity in his voice makes heat rise in my cheeks. I take another sip of wine to cover my reaction, then redirect to having a few more bites of this decadent meal.
"Tell me about the people you work for at the track," he says. "Anyone give you trouble?"
"Not really. Most of the staff keep to themselves. The jockeys can be demanding, but that's normal."
"What about people who aren't staff?" He asks it as a run of the mill question, but my blood turns cold. Sonya's face flashes in my mind—sharp features, calculating eyes, that smile that never reaches above her mouth.
"Why do you ask?"
"You seem nervous sometimes. Distracted. I want to make sure you're safe."
I set down my wine glass, my hands suddenly unsteady. "There's this woman. Sonya. She… she asks me to run errands sometimes. Deliver envelopes, place bets for her friends. I thought it was harmless."
"But now you're not sure."
"She scares me. The way she looks at me, the way she talks. There's always this undertone of threat, even when she's being friendly." I wrap my arms around myself. "I want to stop helping her, but I'm afraid of what might happen if I refuse."
Misha reaches across the table and covers my hand. His fingers are warm and steady. "What kind of errands does she have you run?"
"Mostly betting slips. She gives me envelopes and tells me which windows to visit, which horses to bet on. She says her friends are too busy to come to the track themselves." Telling him makes me feel vulnerable and weak. I'm a fool for getting wrapped up with her, just like Batya said.
"How often?"
"Two or three times a week. Sometimes more during big race days." I look down at our joined hands. "She pays well, and I need the money for Elvin's treatments. But lately, the amounts have gotten larger, and she's started asking me questions about other people at the track."
"What kind of questions?"
"About the new bookie running things…" My hand is trembling in his, but he still makes me feel safe.
His grip tightens slightly on my hand. "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing. I haven't met him yet." I look up at him. "She feels dangerous."
"You have good instincts." He releases my hand and signals for the check. "I might be able to help you handle this situation."
"How?"
"Let me worry about the details. For now, just continue doing what she asks, but tell me about it afterward. Can you do that?"
The waiter appears with the bill. I reach for my purse, but Misha waves me off.
"I can pay for my half," I protest.
"I asked you to dinner. I pay for dinner." He slides cash across the leather folder without looking at the total.
"But it's so much money—"
"It's dinner, Vera. Not a car."
We stand to leave, and he places his hand at my back again, that steady warmth guiding me through the restaurant. Outside, the evening air carries the scents of rain and car exhaust. The street is quieter than the main thoroughfares, lined with trees that rustle in the breeze.
He falls into step beside me, matching his longer stride to mine. His hand remains at my back, a subtle claim that makes my pulse quicken. The wine has made me bold, relaxed in a way I haven't been in months as we walk toward his car.
"This was wonderful," I say. "The restaurant, the food, the conversation. I can't remember the last time I felt so…"
"So what?"
"Free, I guess. Like I could just be myself without worrying about taking care of everyone else."
"You deserve to feel that way more often."
"I don't think I know how anymore."
"I could teach you."
I remain quiet as he opens the car door for me. His hand rests on my knee gently as he drives, but he says nothing. I feel the alcohol swirling in my head, making me want his hand some other place, not my knee, and when he rounds the corner, I begin to feel disappointment creep in.
"Here we are," I say as my building comes into view.
He parks near the entrance. I dig through my purse for my keys, suddenly awkward now that the evening is over. "Thank you again," I say. "For dinner, for listening about Sonya, for making me feel…"
"Beautiful? Interesting? Important?"
"All of those things."
He leans closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"I don't want you to go home yet," he says.
My breath catches. "What do you mean?"
"Come with me. To my place. We can talk more, have another glass of wine. I'm not ready for this evening to end." His eyes bounce between mine, and I sigh softly, breathing in the scent of the wine on my own breath.
"I should go upstairs. Batya will worry if I'm too late."
"Will he? Or is that an excuse because you're nervous?"
I am nervous. Nervous and excited and terrified all at once. But beneath all those feelings runs a deeper current—trust. Despite his age, his mysterious work, the dangerous questions about Sonya, I feel safer with Misha than I have in months.
"Maybe a little nervous," I admit, feeling the blush warm my cheeks.
He leans down and kisses me, soft and warm and perfect.
When he pulls back, his eyes search mine.
I know what he wants. I want it too, but allowing myself to want it is different from allowing myself to indulge in it.
Misha is so much better than me. I don't deserve him, and yet here I am, melting under his touch.
"I'd love it if you came with me to my house. But only if you want to."
I want to. The realization surprises me with its intensity.
"Okay," I whisper. "Yes."