Chapter 16
Tigran
The reservation at Alinea took three phone calls and a significant donation to the chef’s favorite charity to secure because Grant Achatz doesn’t typically accommodate last-minute requests for his most exclusive private dining room.
The kind of privacy I require comes at a premium that goes beyond mere financial considerations.
“You’re nervous,” Zita says as we approach the restaurant’s unmarked entrance on North Halsted. She looks stunning in a black dress that skims her knees and emphasizes the elegant line of her throat, but I catch the tension in her shoulders despite her composed exterior.
“Cautious,” I correct, offering my arm as we step out of the armored sedan. “There’s a difference.”
Viktor and two other men emerge from the follow car, their movements casual but alert as they take positions around the restaurant’s perimeter.
Inside, three more of my people are already stationed among the servers and kitchen staff.
Even the sommelier, who knows more about firearms than wine, is one of my people, coordinating with the actual sommelier in the back as needed.
The level of security might seem excessive for a dinner date, but after yesterday’s attack, I’m taking no chances with Zita’s safety.
“This seems like a lot of trouble for a meal,” she says, though there’s appreciation in her voice as she takes in the restaurant’s minimalist elegance.
“You deserve more than hiding in the mansion while I handle business.” I guide her through the entrance, nodding to the hostess who recognizes me immediately.
“You deserve to have a life beyond the walls of our home.” This gesture is to show her I’ve taken to heart what she said and acknowledged keeping her locked away might save her, but it will kill our relationship.
The truth is also more complicated than that.
I want to give Zita an evening out after the trauma of yesterday’s attack and to show I’m listening to her needs.
However, this dinner also serves a strategic purpose.
Being seen together in public, relaxed and confident, sends a message to both allies and enemies that the Belsky organization remains strong.
Threats against my wife haven’t succeeded in making me retreat into defensive isolation.
The private dining room is as I requested, with the windows covered, my men at the kitchen exit to ensure no one enters that way, and the single front entrance is easily monitored by Viktor and Simone, our IT person, who agreed to act as his fake date for the evening.
There’s a third exit from the chef’s office that leads directly to an alley where an escape vehicle waits if needed.
The intimate atmosphere would be truly romantic under different circumstances, but more important than romance is safety.
“Prepare for seventeen courses,” I say as we settle into our chairs. “Chef Achatz designed the menu personally when I explained my wife has adventurous taste.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Adventurous taste? What gave you that impression?”
“The way you walked into my conference room uninvited, the way you stood up to Viktor and Dmitri, and the way you kissed me at our wedding like you were declaring war all influenced my assumption.” I pour wine from the bottle that’s already been tested by my people for poison.
“A woman who does those things isn’t afraid of molecular gastronomy. ”
Her laugh is genuine, the first truly relaxed sound I’ve heard from her since the attack. “I suppose that’s one way to interpret my behavior.”
“How would you interpret it?”
“Desperation,” she says without hesitation. “Pure, stubborn desperation to maintain some control over a life that’d been decided for me by other people.”
I nod. “What about now?”
“I’m beginning to think maybe the life I was given isn’t the prison I thought it was.” She meets my gaze across the table. “Maybe it’s an opportunity I was too angry to recognize.”
Before I can respond to that intriguing admission, the first course arrives. It’s a single spoonful of something that looks more like art than food. The servers work like choreographed dancers, explaining each element of the dish in hushed tones before retreating to give us privacy.
“This is beautiful,” she says, studying the plate with genuine curiosity rather than the skepticism I expected.
“Wait until you taste it.”
We eat in comfortable silence with easy companionship that indicates we’re finally learning to be in each other’s presence without constant conflict.
I watch Zita’s reactions to each new course, noting the way her eyes light up when something surprises her palate, the unconscious sounds of appreciation she makes when a flavor combination particularly pleases her.
“You’re staring,” she says during the seventh course, her cheeks slightly flushed from the wine pairings.
“I’m observing. There’s a difference.”
“What are you observing?”
“That you have lovely hands.” I nod toward where she holds her fork with unconscious elegance. “You laugh more when you think I’m not paying attention, and you taste each dish like you’re trying to memorize it.”
“I am trying to memorize it.” She sets down her utensils and leans back in her chair. “I want to remember what it feels like to have a normal evening with my husband.”
“Normal.” I test the word, finding it strange in the context of our lives. “Is this what normal feels like to you?”
She reaches across the table to touch my hand, and her fingers are warm against my knuckles. “It’s close enough that I can pretend we’re just a married couple having dinner, instead of a Bratva boss and his reluctant wife trying to figure out how to survive in each other’s world.”
The contact is simple and innocent, but it sends electricity through my nervous system. Weeks ago, the idea of Zita touching me voluntarily would’ve seemed impossible. Now, the feel of her skin against mine has become something I crave in ways that alarm me.
“I never wanted a reluctant wife,” I turn my hand palm up to capture her fingers. “I wanted a partner but never expected you’d be someone who’d choose to be—” Before I can finish speaking, the sound of breaking glass from the main dining room shatters the intimacy of the moment.
My training kicks in immediately. I release Zita’s hand and reach for the Glock concealed beneath my jacket, my body already moving toward her as shouts erupt from beyond our private dining room’s closed door.
“Get down.” I push her behind the substantial oak table as the door to our room explodes inward.
Three men in black tactical gear pour through the entrance, their faces hidden behind ski masks, holding automatic weapons as they sweep the room. I recognize the tactical formation immediately as indicating they’ve had military training.
Interesting, but no match for my skills.
I put two rounds into the side of the first gunman, bypassing his protective vest, before he can acquire Zita as a target.
The second shooter gets off a burst that shatters the crystal chandelier above our heads, sending shards of expensive glass raining down on the overturned table where Zita has taken cover.
The third gunman is smarter and more patient. He uses his fallen comrades as cover while he tries to flank our position, keeping his weapon trained on the space where Zita crouches behind increasingly inadequate protection.
I don’t give him the chance.
The Spetsnaz training my father forced on me from age ten takes over completely.
The three years I spent at a Siberian boarding school that was more like a prison than a camp taught me well.
I move without conscious thought, muscle memory and thousands of hours of conditioning guiding my actions.
A combat roll brings me within striking distance of the third shooter.
I take the knife I always carry, even in formal attire, from my ankle sheath and throw it without overthinking.
The blade finds the gap between his body armor and helmet with surgical precision.
He drops without firing another shot.
The entire encounter lasts less than ninety seconds, but it feels like hours. My ears ring from the gunfire in the enclosed space, and I taste copper and cordite in the air. The expensive molecular gastronomy is forgotten, replaced by the metallic flavor of violence and survival.
“Zita.” I call her name as I clear the rest of the room, checking corners and ensuring no additional threats remain. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Her voice is shaky but strong. “I’m not hurt.”
I help her from behind the table, noting the way her hands tremble as she brushes glass fragments from her hair. The black dress is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a small cut on her cheek from flying debris, but she’s alive, whole, and looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“We need to leave,” I tell her, already moving toward the secondary exit through the chef’s office that I planned for in case we needed it. “Now.”
As we reach the door, warm wetness spreads across my left shoulder, along with searing pain, and I realize the second gunman’s burst caught me after all. The adrenaline that carried me through the fight is beginning to fade, replaced by the sharp burn of torn flesh and muscle.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, her voice tight with concern.
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically, born from years of training that taught me never to show weakness or admit vulnerability even when bullets are lodged in my body.
“You’re not fine.” She touches my shoulder gently, her fingers coming away red with my blood. “You need medical attention.”
Viktor appears in the doorway, his own weapon drawn and his face grim with the aftermath of violence. “Building is secure, boss, but we need to move. Police response is three minutes out.”