Chapter 9
LYRA
“I have an arrangement.”
“Of course you do.”
I follow him down the stairs to a nondescript front door that leads into a narrow, candlelit room; the scent of garlic and rosemary is thick in the air.
Julian holds the door for me. As soon as we enter, a ma?tre d’ seated at the bar with a glass of wine nearby and a book in his hands, turns and eases out of his seat.
“Mr. Volkov,” he says. “A pleasure to see you tonight.”
“Likewise, Michael. Table for two, please.”
“In the back?”
“Per usual, yes.”
We’re led to a small booth in a back corner, one that allows for a full view of the room. It’s a cozy space; the walls are lined with news articles and photographs of famous people.
“Nice and private,” I say, looking around.
“That’s the idea.”
We sit, the booth so small that our knees almost touch beneath the table.
A waiter appears with a bottle of red and two menus handwritten on brown paper.
“Not necessary,” Julian says, waving them away.
He orders quickly in fluent Italian for both of us, with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Normally, I’d bristle at a man ordering for me, but I’m hardly feeling normal, not to mention too rattled and hungry to think straight.
“Italian,” I say as the waiter departs. “That’s… unexpected.”
“Picked it up during work travels. We had a client in Genoa, who ended up being a long-term partner. I found it easier to learn the language than to enter everything into Google Translator.”
“Smart move. Was the language the only thing you picked up over there?” My eyes flash at my own comment, at the implication that he might’ve learned Italian not just to speak to a client, but to make love.
“I did,” he says with a wink. “I learned how to cook.”
I laugh out of humor and relief.
He pours the wine, and as soon as I see the ruby-red liquid flow into the glass, it hits me how much I need a drink after the evening I’ve had. Hell, still having.
I reach for the glass without thinking, catching myself.
“Sorry, I guess I’m just eager after tonight.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, pouring himself a glass. “That’s what moments like these are about—relaxing, forgetting the world outside.”
I take in the setting—the dim lighting, candles flickering at every table, the comfortable ambiance, mellow Italian music floating through the air. A few of the other tables are occupied with couples leaning in closely in conversation, looking intimately enthralled with each other.
“Well, in that case, I’d like to forget I was being stalked.”
He raises his glass. “Salute.”
“Salute,” I repeat. We tap our glasses, and I sip.
“To your liking?” he asks.
“It’s delicious.”
It really is. I’m not exactly a huge wine drinker, but even I can taste the rich notes of cherry and the subtle hints of dark chocolate and black pepper. Perfect for a late-night dinner.
The food arrives—burrata with roasted tomatoes; handmade pappardelle in a gorgeous red sauce; and a basket of fresh, steaming bread that I can’t help but reach for instantly. I take a piece and cover it with a bit of butter, eating half the slice in seconds.
But then the old reflex kicks in—the little, nagging voice in the back of my head that sounds like Alexander and Sophia combined, the one that’s always comparing me to other, slimmer women, deeming me not as good or as worthy.
Slow down. You’re being too indulgent. People are watching.
I set the bread down. Julian notices instantly. He raises a brow as if he’s sizing up exactly what’s happening, then he pushes the basket back toward me.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Allowing whatever happened to you before make you put the bread down.” His voice is quiet, but firm, making it clear the subject isn’t up for debate. “Eat the bread, Lyra.”
I purse my lips, suddenly feeling silly.
“I inhaled half the slice.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s good bread. Have the rest.”
I stare at him as if there’s going to be a catch, but there isn’t. He just stares back with an expression that suggests that the idea of depriving myself of something I’m enjoying is a problem he’s going to solve right then and there.
I eat the bread. It’s excellent—warm, crusty, and perfect.
We talk—not about the Bratva, not about Alexander, not about the man who may or may not have been watching my building—but about other things. The sort of things you talk about when the wine and the vibe is perfect, and you can tell the other person is actually listening.
He asks about New Orleans. I tell him about the Garden District, the beignets, and the way the whole city smells like jasmine in May.
He asks about my parents, and I tell him about my dad’s woodworking, about my mom’s teaching, how she could’ve retired two years ago, but refuses to because she insists that “the kids need her.”
“She’s probably right,” he agrees. “Good teachers can change lives.”
I ask him about his mother. He tells me about the house in upstate New York where he grew up, how his mom taught him how to cook, how she loved to play Italian music—similar to what’s playing at the restaurant—every Saturday morning while they made breakfast together.
“She sounds wonderful,” I say, and I mean it.
“She was.” He takes a slow sip of his wine.
“You know, part of me wanted to stay overseas, continue my work as an informal corporate diplomat. I could’ve, too, but I came back because of my mother.
The memory of her, anyway. The foundation.
I couldn’t let Alexander run the remaining part of her into the ground. ”
“He seems to have a talent for such things.”
“Yes.” Julian’s eyes meet mine from across the table. “He seems quite skilled at having good things and ruining them with his own bad decisions.”
I swallow. We’re not just talking about the foundation anymore.
The waiter returns and sets a dessert menu between us. I glance at it: tiramisu, panna cotta, and a chocolate torte. A smile begins to form on my lips.
And then the reflex fires again. I think of Alexander’s voice, smooth and casual. You sure about that, babe? You just had pasta. Weren’t you complaining about your work clothes barely fitting anymore? You think dessert’s going to help?
I wince internally. Two years of that—two years of being mindful about what I ordered, my portion size, how quickly I ate—all the while restraining myself, so I wouldn’t have to deal with his looks and his comments.
“What sounds good?” Julian asks.
“I’m fine. The pasta was plenty.”
Julian gives me a long look, one that says, “I can see right through you.” Then he gently plucks the menu from the table and gives it a once-over.
“It all looks good. Order something.”
“Julian, I don’t—”
“Lyra.” He leans forward, his voice low. “You never need to control your appetite around me. Not at this table, not anywhere.” His gaze holds mine, serious and steady. “I want you to have exactly what you want every time. Do you understand?”
I understand that he’s talking about dessert and not talking about dessert all at the same time.
I gulp.
He leans back. “Actually, do you mind if I order?” he asks. “I’ve got a sense of what’s good here.”
“S–sure.”
He gestures to the waiter, who quickly approaches.
“One of each,” he says.
My eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”
“I never joke about dessert.”
The waiter nods and takes the menu. I shift in my seat after he leaves, not quite sure how to feel or what to think.
The three desserts arrive in moments. I spend a few seconds looking between them, not quite sure where to begin.
First, the panna cotta. I wield my spoon like a weapon, reaching over and slipping it into the pillowy-white treat. It tastes like heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven. I melt into the leather of the booth, letting the creamy-sweet texture be the only thing I focus on.
Next, the tiramisu. It’s perfect—that unmistakable blend of espresso, chocolate, and mascarpone, all folded into ladyfingers. I follow up the first bite with another, then turn my attention to the torte.
It’s devastatingly delicious—dark and rich, the kind of delicacy that makes you feel like you’re committing a crime by enjoying it. I take a second bite and close my eyes. When I open them, Julian is watching me with an expression that makes my cheeks flush.
“Good?”
“Incredible. So good.”
“Excellent. Stop apologizing for enjoying things. Consider that the one rule of being in my company.” He takes his fork and scoops a bite of the tiramisu, savoring it, then nodding in appreciation as if standing before a gorgeous work of art. “Life is too short, and chocolate is too good.”
I laugh. The knot in my chest, the one that Alexander tied there and that Sophia pulled tighter, finally loosens, if only just a little.
I find myself looking at him like he’s another dessert in front of me. My gaze moves over his lips, his jaw, the way his hand grips the fork with careful precision. I shift in my seat, suddenly feeling painfully aware of what this man is doing to me.
When he flicks those gunmetal-gray eyes at me, I gasp a bit, as if he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t have been. For a moment, I want nothing more than for him to lean across the table and—
His phone buzzes with a text. When his attention snaps to it, I take the moment to let out the breath I’d been holding. Julian picks the phone off the table and reads.
“It’s Ethan. Says that they checked the block, and it’s clear.”
“What about the guy in the baseball cap across the street?”
“Says he left twenty minutes after we did. They’re running plates on a car that pulled away from the curb around the same time.”
“So I can go home now?” Strangely, I’m a little disappointed as I speak the words. Part of me wanted this night to keep going.
“Yes, I can take you home,” he gently says. “No trains, no Ubers, though. Not tonight.”
He stands and offers me his hand. I take it, focusing on the warmth and roughness of his skin.
Gently, he guides me out of the seat, then nods to the waiter on the way out, who nods back at him.
No bill is given, no money exchanged. I find myself wondering just what kind of arrangement he has with this place.
Together, we step out into the cool Midtown night and are soon back in his SUV. The drive to Astoria takes twenty minutes, the silence that hangs between us is tense and awkward.
He pulls up in front of my building. I glance up and down the block to see if the man from before might still be under the hardware store awning. He isn’t.
“Thanks,” I say, running my hand nervously up and down the seatbelt. “For dinner. And for everything else.”
He nods slowly. “My pleasure.”
I unbuckle the seatbelt. It’s time to get out, time to go into my apartment, and back to real life. But I don’t want to.
I should get out of the car, rush upstairs, drink an ice-cold glass of water, and try to put the strangeness of the night behind me.
I should scold myself for going on a candlelight date—or whatever this was—with a Bratva don and swear to never do anything like it again. I should start composing what I want to say to him in the morning.
I should. I should. I should.
“Goodnight, Lyra.”
Get out of the car, Lyra. Go upstairs. Get away from him and whatever’s happening as quickly as possible.
“Julian.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you really come to my alley tonight?”
He says nothing for a long moment, his hands on the wheel and his eyes fixed forward, as if he’s giving the question major thought. I watch his thumbs move slowly over the leather.
“Because I was worried about you.”
“Is that the only reason?”
He sighs.
“And because… because I wanted to see you.”
Out of the car. Get out of the car now.
But instead of following the good advice my mind is internally shouting at me, I lean across the center console, put my hand on his jaw, and kiss him.
I feel exhilarated the second it happens. I also feel like a total fool, but like I’m made of pure electricity. The kiss is a quick peck on his lips, like we’re at a fifth-grade dance.
His eyebrows arch in surprise. For a second, I think he’s going to tell me that I did something foolish and that I need to go inside.
But he doesn’t.
I sit back as he leans over me, his hand moving to the back of my neck as he brings his lips to mine. The kiss is deep and unhurried; the kind of kiss that rewires the way you think about kissing. His teeth graze my lower lip, and I groan.
I want his tongue and his taste, but he doesn’t give them to me. He breaks the kiss, and I rest my forehead against his, feeling his breath against my skin. His hand is still on my neck, and my mind is racing with ideas of all the other places I’d rather it be.
“Come upstairs,” I say.
He kills the engine.
That’s all the answer I need.