Chapter 30 #2
She slides into her seat with the grace of someone born to occupy spaces like this. I take the chair across from her, close enough that our knees brush under the table.
A server appears instantly, placing leather-bound menus before us. Vittoria reaches for hers, but I catch her wrist.
"Order for me."
Her eyebrows rise. "What?"
"You know this place. You love it. Order for both of us."
"You don't even know what you like here."
"I know I like watching you taking care of me." I release her wrist, letting my fingers trail across her palm. "Show me what's good."
She opens the menu, scanning the options like a general surveying a battlefield.
"Do you have any allergies I should know about?"
"None."
"Texture preferences? Things you won't eat?"
"I'll eat anything you put in front of me."
Her lips curve. "Dangerous promise."
"I'm a dangerous man."
She ignores me, turning her attention fully to the menu. I watch her face as she reads. The slight furrow between her brows when she considers an option. The way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking. The small nod she gives herself when she makes a decision.
The server returns.
Vittoria doesn't look up from the menu. "We'll start with the omakase appetizer selection.
Then the black cod with miso. Two portions, different preparations if the chef is willing.
The wagyu tataki, medium rare. Uni with quail egg.
The lobster tempura, and..." She pauses, glancing at me. "Do you like spice?"
"Yes."
"The spicy tuna crispy rice, extra crispy." She closes the menu with a snap. "And a bottle of the Dassai 23. Two glasses."
The server bows and retreats.
I lean back in my chair, studying her. "You didn't hesitate."
"I've been coming here since I was sixteen." She unfolds her napkin, placing it across her lap. "Lorenzo brought me for my birthday. I cried into my miso soup because Papa had been dead for three years and I still expected him to walk through the door."
The casual way she mentions her grief catches me off guard.
"You don't talk about him much. Your father."
"Neither do you." She meets my gaze. "Talk about yours, I mean."
The server returns with the sake, pouring two perfect measures before disappearing again.
Vittoria lifts her glass. "To fathers who shaped us. For better or worse."
I raise mine to meet hers. The crystal chimes softly.
"To fathers," I echo.
We drink.
The sake warms my throat, but Vittoria's expression cools the heat.
She sets her glass down. Traces the rim with one finger.
"I've been thinking," she says.
Nothing good ever follows those words.
"About us." She looks up, and there's something careful in her eyes. Measured. "About how this is all happening."
My jaw tightens. "What about it?"
"It's not normal, Dmitri."
"We're not normal people."
"That's not what I mean." She leans forward, elbows on the table.
The green of her dress catches the low light, making her skin glow.
"I asked for three months. Remember? Three months to learn each other.
To talk. To figure out if we're actually compatible or if this is just—" She waves her hand. "Chemistry. Attraction. Whatever."
"We're compatible."
"You can't know that."
"I know it." I reach across the table, catching her hand before she can pull away. "I've known it since the gala. Since you ran from me like I was something to fear and I realized I'd chase you to the ends of the earth if that's what it took."
She doesn't pull her hand back. But she doesn't soften either.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about." Her voice stays steady. Calm. The voice she uses when she's working through a problem. "You knew. At the gala. You knew who I was, what family I belonged to, probably what I had for breakfast that morning. And I knew nothing."
"No, that moment—"
"Let me finish."
I close my mouth. Though she's going to regret that later while I'm deep inside her sweet pussy.
She pulls her hand free, folding both hands in her lap. Creating distance.
"You know everything about me, Dmitri. Everything. You have people watching me. Reporting to you. You knew I was at Nexus that night. You knew about my dinner with James. You probably know what I texted Amanda this morning and what color underwear I'm wearing right now."
I don't respond.
"And what do I know about you?" She tilts her head. "What's in your file. What my brothers' intelligence gathered. Surface information. Business dealings. Known associates. Criminal history."
"You know more than that."
"Do I?" Her laugh holds no humor. "I know your father just died. I know you have siblings you care about. I know you like control and you're possessive and you kiss like you're trying to consume me whole. But that's not knowing someone, Dmitri."
The appetizers arrive. Delicate plates arranged with artistic precision. Neither of us looks at them.
"What do you want to know?" I ask.
"Everything." She spreads her hands. "I want to know what you were like as a child.
What made you laugh. What made you cry. I want to know your favorite book and whether you prefer mornings or nights and what you dream about when you actually sleep.
I want to know the things that aren't in any file. The things you've never told anyone."
"I don't—" I stop. Start again. "I don't talk about those things."
"I know." Her voice gentles. "That's the problem. I've been raised among men who don't talk about those things."
I stare at her across the table.
"You think I'm hiding from you."
"I think you're hiding from everyone." She picks up her chopsticks, selecting a piece of sashimi with casual grace.
"I think you've been hiding so long you've forgotten there's anything to hide.
And I think if we're going to do this—really do this—I need more than surveillance reports and possessive declarations. "
She eats the sashimi. Chews. Swallows.
I haven't moved.
"The three months," I say slowly. "You wanted them for this. For... talking."
"For learning each other. Yes." She meets my eyes. "Not for you to seduce me in empty theaters while I still don't know your middle name."
"Alexei."
She blinks. "What?"
"My middle name. Dmitri Alexei Baganov." I lean back in my chair, something loosening in my chest. "After my father. It's tradition. The firstborn son carries the father's name."
A small smile curves her lips. "See? That wasn't so hard."
"It felt like pulling teeth."
"Then we have a lot of dental work ahead of us." She gestures at my untouched plate. "Eat. The omakase is incredible, and I didn't order it so you could let it get warm while you brood."
I pick up my chopsticks.
The fish melts on my tongue. She's right. It's incredible.
"Vittoria Sartori," I say between bites. "What's your middle name?"
"Maria. After my grandmother." She selects another piece. "Your turn. Favorite color."
"I don't have one."
"Everyone has one."
I consider. "Black."
"That's not a color, that's an absence of color."
"Then I have an absence of favorites." I watch her roll her eyes. "Fine. Blue. Dark blue. The color of the sky just before full night."
She nods, filing the information away. "Favorite food?"
"Whatever you're eating."
"Dmitri."
"My mother's pelmeni." The words come out before I can stop them. "She made them every Sunday. Handmade. The dough so thin you could almost see through it. After she died, the kitchen staff tried to replicate the recipe. They never got it right."