Chapter 26
AMALIE
“Mr. Barinov, your table is ready.”
The restaurant Roman picked for our evening out is a bit overwhelming.
Muted golden light spills over white tablecloths so crisp they look like you could cut your finger on the iron creases.
A pianist sits in the corner, playing delicate tunes.
All of the well-dressed diners are seated closely together, speaking in quiet tones like they’re closing deals or hiding affairs.
All eyes look to Roman when we walk in. The ma?tre d’ smiles. “Please, right this way.”
Roman nods once, not saying a word. I try to appear nonchalant, like this is normal for me. But it isn’t, not even a little.
“You alright?” Roman asks, seeming to sense my discomfort.
“Fine. Just soaking it all in. Not my usual kind of place. I’m more of a fast and casual kind of girl when I’m in the mood to treat myself.”
Roman pulls my chair out for me when we arrive at the table. It’s a small gesture, but it makes my stomach flutter in a stupid, girlish way all the same. Roman always seems to pull that giddy feeling out of me.
Roman slides into the chair across from me, his posture relaxed, eyes locked on mine. “Deep breath,” he says. “This place won’t bite.”
“You sure about that? The pianist looks like he might be the type.”
Roman smirks a tiny bit just as our waiter arrives. He’s about my age, handsome in a boyish kind of way, and very well-poised.
“Good evening,” he says, opening a bottle of still water and pouring two glasses.
“Whiskey. Neat,” Roman says, his eyes on the menu.
“Very good, Mr. Barinov.”
I look over the drink list. It’s like a damn phone book. And I’ve never exactly been a wine connoisseur.
As if sensing my issue, Roman speaks up. “The ’11 Cab,” he says, his eyes still on the menu. “No sampling necessary.”
I smile just a bit. It’s uncanny how well he reads me.
“Of course,” the waiter replies. Then he recites the specials, everything sounding way too fancy. I’m trying to pay attention, but instead I find myself fantasizing about a big slice of deep-dish oozing with cheese.
“And to start,” he says, his eyes flicking up and down my body in a way I’m all too familiar with.
My blood runs cold. I know that look. It’s not a look of appreciation.
It’s a look of judgement. “For you, Mr. Barinov, may I recommend the scallops. And for your companion, perhaps the beet and citrus salad. Very light.”
I stare at him for long moment. There’s no mistaking his tone as he speaks the words “very light.” No mistaking the slight smirk that crosses his lips, as if he’s getting away with something.
A familiar heat crawls up my neck. But it’s different this time. I don’t feel embarrassment. I feel anger.
Roman regards me carefully, as if weighing whether or not to step in.
I set the menu down slowly. “I’m not on a diet.”
The waiter blinks, as if he didn’t expect me to say anything. “Oh. Of course. I just meant—”
“You meant what?” I ask.
Roman’s gaze shifts to the waiter’s face, then back to mine. He’s evaluating. The temperature at the table drops so much I half expect to see the still water freeze.
“Let me ask you this,” I say. “Do you recommend the salad to all of the guests?”
The waiter laughs nervously. The right move would be to apologize as quickly as possible, then scamper off with his tail between his legs. He doesn’t.
“Well, I—”
Roman cuts him off. “Or only to the ones you think should be on a diet?” His tone is scary calm.
My pulse jumps. “Roman—”
The waiter’s smug smile finally falters. He glances around, as if suddenly aware of his situation. “Mr. Barinov, sir, I didn’t mean—”
Roman lifts a hand, stopping him. Still polite, still controlled. But his eyes are cold and narrowed like shards of green glass.
“You spoke out of turn,” he says. “And you insulted my companion.”
The waiter swallows hard.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
“You will apologize. Now.”
Another hard swallow. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to offend you. Really.”
It’s a lie. To offend was his only intention.
The waiter just stands there, as if waiting for his next orders. He gets them.
“Your manager,” Roman says. “Now.”
The waiter pales. “Sir, please—”
Roman turns his head slightly, gaze sharpening. “Now.”
He practically sprints away.
I stare at Roman. I’m equal parts flustered and furious. I’m also turned on.
“Roman, I appreciate you. But I don’t need you to make a scene on my behalf. You’ve proved your point.”
He turns those gorgeous, sharp eyes to me. His expression is dark, angry, but I know he’s not angry at me. “No,” he says simply.
“No?”
“No one speaks to you like that. Not in my presence.”
“It was just a stupid comment. I can handle a stupid comment.”
His mouth tightens. “I know you can handle it. You shouldn’t have to.”
The manager arrives in a flurry. He’s middle-aged, neatly groomed, and anxious as hell. “Mr. Barinov,” he says, his voice tight with panic. “Is everything satisfactory for you this evening?”
Roman’s gaze doesn’t soften. “I’m afraid not. Your waiter suggested that my companion should order something light, his insinuation blatant.”
The manager’s face twitches. He knows what kind of trouble he’s in. “I’m so very sorry. I—”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I can assure you—”
Roman shakes his head, stopping him mid-sentence. “No. I’m going to tell you what you can assure me of.”
The manager says nothing, smart enough to realize this is the part where he shuts the hell up and listens.
“First, that waiter is no longer our waiter—or yours.”
The manager nods, as if that’s simply a no-brainer.
“Next, you’re going to have an all-hands-on-deck meeting tomorrow morning.
Everyone attends. You’re going to go over the basics of respect and hospitality.
Then, we’re going to return in one week.
If the service is not to my, or my companion’s, satisfaction, well, you might not have a restaurant to return to. ”
The manager’s eyes flash. No doubt he understands the gravity of the situation. “Yes, sir,” he says. “Thank you for this opportunity to instruct the staff. We’ll make sure everything is in order for your return. Thank you for giving us another chance.”
I don’t know how to feel about this. Roman’s powerful, sure, but this man is all but asking Roman if he can kiss his feet.
“Now,” the manager says, trying to plaster a smile on his face. “Can I interest you in—”
“No,” Roman says, cutting him off. “Nothing for tonight. As it stands, this place isn’t good enough. We’ll see how matters change in a week.” He slowly gets out of his chair, offering me his hand. “Shall we?”
Hand in hand, we walk out. The ma?tre d’ doesn’t meet our eyes, as if looking at Roman the wrong way would get him fired on the spot. Maybe it would.
The cold hits my cheeks as soon as we step outside. Roman doesn’t slow until we’re halfway down the sidewalk, away from the warm glow of the restaurant.
I stop. “Roman.”
He turns. I slip my hand out of his grasp, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You can’t do that.”
He says nothing for a long moment. Then, “I did what needed to be done.”
“Roman, you can’t just threaten an entire business because a waiter made a comment.”
His eyes narrow slightly; he’s not used to being argued with.
“They will learn, and they will correct,” he says. “And you will know that there is no possibility of me standing idly by while you are insulted.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my eyes drifting to a passing car. As extreme as he was, Roman did what he did to defend me. And I have to admit, it felt good to see that waiter put in his place.
“Listen. I appreciate you having my back. But I need you to understand something. I’m not fragile.”
Roman studies me for a long moment. The amber headlights of a passing car cast a sweeping illumination of his features—the silver at his temples, the hard line of his jaw, the severity in his eyes.
“I know you’re not fragile,” he says. “I saw it in the way you stuck up for yourself.”
“Then why?”
“Because you are mine,” he says simply. There’s no theatrics to his words, no hedging. Just truth, as he sees it. “And nobody disrespects what is mine.”
I don’t know how to react to his words. I’m his? I hate the part of me that thrills at his possessiveness. I hate how quickly my heart turns it into something sexy right as my brain recognizes it as a warning.
“I’m not an object.”
His expression shifts, as if he realizes a little more precision is necessary. “No. You are not. But you are a woman I would burn cities for.”
I shift again. “That’s sweet.” I’m downplaying massively how much his words are affecting me.
He steps closer, taking my hands into his. “It is honest.”
I look up at him. Part of me wants to kiss him, another part wants to slap him. Before I have a chance to do either of those things, however, my body pipes up. Specifically, my stomach, which chooses that moment to rumble loudly.
He chuckles. “There’s still the matter of our dinner.”
“Yeah. I guess threatening service staff works up an appetite.”
Roman glances over his shoulder, then back to me. “There’s a lovely French bistro just—”
I cut him off. “No. New plan.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not in the mood for a place where I have to worry about which one of nine different forks I’m supposed to use.”
Roman laughs, a real laugh, and considers my words. “Very well then. Where would you like to go?”
A playful grin forms on my lips. “I know just the place.”
The name on the window reads, “Mama Lina’s Hot Chicken.”
It’s loud. It’s warm. It smells like frying oil and pepper and something tangy that makes my stomach growl. The lights are fluorescent. The tables and chairs are mismatched. There’s a handwritten sign over the counter that says: BE PATIENT. GOOD FOOD TAKES TIME.
Roman steps inside behind me, his eyes widening just a bit and his eyebrows arching in a way that makes it clear this is not his typical place to eat.
“I’m going to guess you’ve never been here.”
His gaze sweeps over the scene, over the families, the construction workers getting off late shifts. No one recognizes him here like they did at the fancy restaurant.
“No. I have not.”
“It’s the best hot chicken in the city. I’m serious, people go crazy over this place.”
“Hot chicken?”
“Yeah. Like regular fried chicken, except hot.”
His mouth twitches a bit. “Should I be concerned?”
“Not even a little. Unless you’re a wimp.”
I playfully elbow him and he chuckles. When he starts to step up to the counter, I quickly shoot out my arm and bar him from moving forward.
“Not a chance.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m not about to let a hot chicken amateur order our meal. Trust me.”
The faintest whisper of a smirk forms on his lips. “As you wish.”
I step forward, the stocky woman behind the counter with a no-nonsense expression approaching, wiping her hands on a dark blue apron.
“You ready, sweetheart?” she asks.
“Sure am.” I take a deep breath. “For me. Two-piece, hot. No, make it a four-piece—extra crispy. Mac and cheese. Collard greens. Cornbread.”
She grins. “Good choice. And for Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome?”
“Let’s do a three-piece—it’s his first hot-chicken rodeo. Thighs and drumsticks. Fries, biscuit with honey.” I glance over my shoulder. “That work?”
“That works.”
The woman at the counter grins and nods approvingly. “You’re feeding him right.”
Roman chuckles quietly. “It would appear so.”
“Oh!” I add. “And two sweet teas.”
“Sweet tea?” he asks.
“Trust me. You’ll like it.”
“I’m in your hands.”
“Dangerous place to be,” I reply with a wink.
The counter lady calls out the total, and I pull out my wallet. But of course Roman is quicker, handing her his credit card.
“You are introducing me to the hot chicken experience,” he says as she swipes his card. “The least I can do is pay.”
We take a seat at a small table by the window. Roman settles in across from me, his long legs tucked under the tiny area beneath. I watch him as we wait. His gaze tracks the room, but not in his usual suspicious way, like he’s on high alert for danger. It’s more like curiosity.
“Ever been to a place like this before?”
“Not chicken. But something else.”
“Tell me.”
He sits back in his chair, looking away as if bringing back a nearly forgotten memory.
“When I was a boy, there was a place near the Sokolniki tram stop in Moscow. You wouldn’t know it was there if you weren’t looking for it.
Truth is, we didn’t even know the name. We just called it Aunt Zina’s, for the woman who ran it. ”
“Your aunt?”
“No. The same way this Mama Lina isn’t your actual mama.” I laugh. “Her specialty was pelmeni—a traditional Russian dumpling. She made them by hand every morning. It’s dough rolled thin, filled with beef, pork, and a lot of garlic, but somehow just the right amount.”
There’s an almost wistful tone to his words. I’ve never heard it before and it makes my chest warm.
“She served them swimming in butter and sour cream, alongside pumpernickel bread still warm from the oven. Nothing was better when the Moscow winters were at their worst. And it was always busy. Not nearly enough tables and chairs. You ate standing up if you had to. But it was worth it.” He looks away, as if another memory popped in. But he doesn’t speak that one out loud.
The moment ends when an employee swings by, plopping our chicken and sides onto the table along with the sweet tea.
The chicken’s piled high in red plastic trays, skin crackling and glossy, fresh out of the fryer.
The fries are golden, and the mac and cheese looks like molten deliciousness.
The collard greens are dark and glistening, slow cooked and perfect.
The biscuits have cracked open, steam mingling with the honey.
I lean forward and take a sip of the sweet tea, ice-cold and perfectly sweetened.
“This is quite a spread,” Roman says. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“With the chicken, of course,” I say with a smile. “That thigh is calling out to you.”
He furrows his brow in concentration, picking up the chicken with both hands and bringing it to his mouth. I’m practically vibrating with anticipation.
He chews thoughtfully, then his eyes widen comically. I laugh, knowing what’s happening. Roman’s face turns a slight shade of red. He picks up his sweet tea and nearly drains the entire cup.
“That,” he says, setting down the cup, “was indeed hot.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
He takes another bite. Then another. He chews and swallows—more easily, this time. “It’s not bad.”
In that moment, sitting in a hot chicken dive with one of the most dangerous men in the city, I let myself think everything will be okay after all.