Chapter 12
Dimitri
SONG: VORE BY SLEEP TOKEN
That made two of us.
"This is awkward," she said finally.
"Spectacularly."
"Should we try harder or just accept defeat?"
I considered. "What did you read today?"
Her face lit up. "Anna Comnena's Alexiad. It's this incredible first-person account of—wait, you actually want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
She talked for twenty minutes about Byzantine history while I ate Helen's incredible braciole and tried to follow along.
Something about crusaders and political intrigue and a daughter writing her father's biography.
Giulia's hands moved when she talked. She forgot to eat.
Her enthusiasm was infectious even when I had no idea what she was saying.
"I'm boring you," she said eventually.
"You're not. Keep going."
"You're just being nice."
"I'm never nice. Ask anyone." I refilled her wine glass. "Tell me why this Anna person matters."
She did. And I listened. Not because I cared about medieval Constantinople but because watching Giulia talk about something she loved was better than anything I'd seen in years.
When I left at ten, she walked me to the door.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
"If you can tolerate more of my company."
"I think I can manage."
Day two, I arrived at seven sharp with a bottle of Georgian wine because Helen had mentioned Giulia preferred dry reds.
"You brought wine," Giulia said when Margaret showed me in.
"Observant."
"That's actually thoughtful."
"Don't spread it around. I have a reputation to maintain."
We ate in the smaller dining room again. The formal one felt too big. Too cold. This space was manageable. Human-sized.
She asked about the Bratva. Real questions. How we moved money. How we maintained territory. The difference between captains and soldiers. I found myself explaining things I'd never bothered to articulate before.
"So, Yuri questions you because you're younger," she said. "But Maxim follows you because you're friends. What about Viktor?"
"Viktor follows whoever has the most power and the best chance of keeping him alive."
"That's pragmatic."
"That's survival." I took a drink. "In my world you don't get loyalty through friendship. You get it through fear or respect or money. Sometimes all three."
"And which do you use?"
"Depends on the person." I met her eyes. "Some people respond to fear. Others need to believe you're worth following. The trick is knowing which approach to take."
"What approach are you taking with me?"
The question caught me off guard. "Honestly? I have no idea. You don't fit any category I understand."
She smiled. "Good. I'd hate to be predictable."
We talked until midnight. When I left, she touched my arm briefly. Just a second. But I felt it all the way back to Manhattan.
Day three, she ambushed me with questions about my childhood before I'd even sat down.
"Where did you grow up?"
"New York, Brighton Beach."
"What was it like?"
"Russian. Poor. Violent." I accepted the vodka she'd apparently learned I preferred. "Why?"
"Because I'm trying to understand you. The files tell me what you do. Not who you are."
Nobody had asked me that in years. Maybe ever.
I told her about the neighborhood. About my mother doing the best she could.
About how when I was twelve my father decided I was a man and took me from her, starting training, torturing me, to be a future Pakhan.
About stepping in to raise Apolena when our father was too busy building an empire on corpses and couldn’t be bothered to care about a child who had the misfortune of being born a girl.
About how Sofiya came back from the dead and took bloody vengeance on our father.
"That's why you're protective of your sisters," she said.
"Sofiya can protect herself. She proved that when she killed our father."
"But Apolena can't?"
"Apolena is..." I searched for words. "Good. She sees the best in people. That's dangerous."
"Or it's human."
"In my world those are the same thing."
Giulia was quiet for a moment, then she said, "Tell me about your mother."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because that conversation requires more vodka than Helen keeps in the house."
She let it drop. We moved on to safer topics. Books. Food. The fact that Margaret had caught her trying to reorganize the library by publication date instead of genre and had staged an intervention.
When I left that night, Giulia walked me to the door again. It was becoming routine. This moment where we stood too close and neither of us knew quite how to say goodbye.
"Thank you," she said. "For actually showing up. For trying."
"Thank you for not giving up on me yet."
"Yet being the operative word."
I almost kissed her. The impulse came from nowhere and everywhere. She was right there. Close enough to touch and looking at me like I was someone worth knowing.
Instead, I said goodnight and left like a coward.
Progress was apparently subjective.
By day seven we'd fallen into something resembling a rhythm.
I'd arrive at seven. Helen would have dinner ready.
We'd eat and talk and the hours would disappear without me noticing.
Sometimes Giulia would read passages from whatever book she was obsessing over.
Sometimes I'd tell her stories about Bratva politics that made her laugh or gasp or both.
"Wait," she said one night, "you're telling me that Alexei once accidentally started a turf war because he insulted someone's wife?"
"His grammar was poor. He meant to compliment her. Instead, he suggested she had relations with farm animals."
Giulia choked on her wine. "That's terrible."
"That's why I handle all diplomatic conversations now."
She laughed, really laughed. Head thrown back, eyes bright, the kind of sound that made the whole room warmer. I'd made her laugh. Me. The man who specialized in intimidation and strategic violence.
Something in my chest cracked open.
"What?" she asked when she caught me staring.
"Nothing. You just...you should laugh more."
"Give me more reasons to."
Challenge accepted.
Day ten brought rain that turned the drive to Silverleaf into a nightmare. I arrived at 7:45 p.m., soaked and irritated.
Giulia opened the door before Margaret could.
"You're late."
"Traffic was apocalyptic."
"You could have called."
"I could have." I stepped inside and water pooled on the marble. "But then you wouldn't get to scold me."
"I'm not scolding. I was worried."
The words hung there. Worried. About me. When was the last time someone had worried about whether I showed up?
"I'm here now."
"You're also dripping on Margaret's clean floors."
"Margaret will survive."
She handed me a towel. Our fingers brushed. The contact lasted half a second, but electricity shot up my arm anyway. This was becoming a problem.
We ate dinner and I found myself watching her more than I should. The way she tucked hair behind her ear when she was thinking. How she bit her bottom lip when she was trying not to laugh at something I'd said. The unconscious grace in how she moved.
She caught me staring. "What?"
"You're beautiful." The words came out before I could stop them. Honest and stupid and absolutely true.
She blinked. "You've never said that before. Not since our wedding night."
"I should have."
"Why didn't you?"
Because saying it made it real. Made her real. Made this whole situation something I couldn't control or compartmentalize or ignore.
"Because I'm an idiot."
"At least you're self-aware."
We finished dinner and moved to the library. Another new routine. She'd curl up in one of the chairs and I'd sit across from her, and we'd talk until the fire burned low.
Tonight, she asked about Maxim.
"What's his story?"
"You'd have to ask him."
"I'm asking you."
I considered how much to reveal. Maxim's past was his own. But Giulia was looking at me with those eyes that saw too much.
"He grew up hard, harder than me. His father was Bratva but low-level. An alcoholic who used to beat Maxim and his mother until one day Maxim hit back." I took a drink. "He was fourteen and broke his father's jaw. My father saw potential in that kind of violence. Recruited him."
"And you became friends?"
"Eventually. Took a while for him to trust anyone." I smiled slightly. "He's still not great at it. But he's loyal once you earn it."
"Like you."
"I'm worse at it than he is."
"You're trying though. With me." She uncurled from the chair and moved closer. Sat on the arm of mine. Close enough that I could smell her shampoo. "That counts for something."
The proximity was making it hard to think. She was right there. Warm and real and looking at me like I wasn't a monster.
"Giulia."
"Yes?"
"You should probably move."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to kiss you."
Her breath caught. "Would that be so terrible?"
Yes. No. Maybe. I'd spent two weeks building walls and maintaining distance and convincing myself that keeping her at arm's length was protection. But she was the one closing the distance now. She was the one looking at me like she wanted this.
"I'm trying to do this right," I said. "Take things slow. Not rush into—"
She kissed me. Just leaned down and pressed her lips to mine. Soft and sure and absolutely devastating.
I froze for half a second, then instinct took over, and I pulled her into my lap properly. She made a small sound of surprise that turned into something else when I deepened the kiss. This was different from our wedding night. No nervousness. No obligation. Just want.
Her hands slid into my hair while mine found her waist and held on. We kissed like we were drowning and this was air. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Still think I should move?" she asked.
"Absolutely not."
She smiled and kissed me again. Slower this time. Exploring. My hands slipped under her sweater, finding warm skin. She shivered and pressed closer. This was dangerous and complicated. This was everything I'd been trying to avoid.
I didn't care.
We stayed like that until the fire died down and the house grew quiet around us.
Kissing. Touching. Relearning each other without the weight of tradition and expectation.
When I finally forced myself to stop before this went too far, Giulia looked thoroughly kissed and entirely pleased with herself.
"You should go," she said. "Before I convince you to stay."
"Probably wise."
"Will you come back tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Promise?"
"Scout's honor."
"Still not reassuring."
I kissed her once more, quick and hard, then I stood and headed for the door before I could change my mind.
Margaret was in the hallway looking entirely too satisfied with herself. "Have a good evening, Mr. Morozov."
"Tell Helen dinner was excellent."
"I'll tell her you barely touched it because you were too busy making eyes at your wife."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
The drive back to Manhattan took forever. My phone buzzed around midnight.
Giulia: I can't sleep.
Me: Why not?
Giulia: Because I keep thinking about tonight. About you.
Me: That makes two of us.
Giulia: This is dangerous, isn't it? Us actually liking each other.
Me: Probably.
Giulia: Are you scared?
I stared at the message for a long time. Typed and deleted three different responses before settling on the truth.
Me: Terrified.
Giulia: Good. That means it matters.
She was right. Of course she was right.
This mattered. She mattered. And that was the most dangerous thing that had happened to me in years. But as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the feeling of her in my arms, I realized something. Maybe dangerous wasn't always bad. Maybe some risks were worth taking.
Even for someone like me.
Especially for someone like her.