Chapter 6 #2
“Babysitting would imply that you're an unruly toddler.” He smiles faintly, looking me up and down. “Which I do not believe is the case here.”
I arch a brow.
He’s going to chastise the other men for talking to me disrespectfully and then have the audacity to gawk at me? That takes some nerve.
“Come on, I’ll cook you dinner,” he offers, stepping down the stairs and sweeping past me toward the kitchen.
“Wait…what?” I’m surprised, turning to watch him carefully.
When I enter the kitchen, he’s already pulling pots and pans from cabinets I haven’t even looked in yet. Obviously he knows his way around.
“Sit,” he instructs, pointing at the barstools that line the island. “Red or white?”
I sit, still in shock that this burly, fierce man knows his way around my kitchen. “What?”
“You say that a lot, you know that?” he says, laughing at my expense. “Wine. Do you want red or white?”
“Oh. Red please.”
With a nod, he moves to another cabinet, pulling a bottle of wine from it and uncorking it. Pouring two healthy glasses of the beautiful crimson liquid and handing me one.
“You… um… cook?” I ask in surprise.
“Habit I learned during a stint in Lisbon some time ago,” he informs me, pulling ingredients from the pantry and the fridge. “It’s not a bad thing to be handy with a weapon as well as in the kitchen. Just makes me a good catch for some lucky woman down the line.”
I’ll say. I wonder if Tolya knows how to cook?
I sit at the island, sipping on my glass of red wine as he makes pasta and then a butter sauce, stirring in various herbs and vegetables. His company is oddly soothing, easy. I get the impression he’s the kind of man who has seen too much, lost too much, and managed to find a way through it all.
The pasta ends up being perfect, simple yet delicious. It makes the kitchen smell of basil and lemon zest, adding to my sudden comfort.
“So how long have you been in service to Tolya?” I bravely ask.
Yaro pauses, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. Placing it down on the plate, he takes a sip of his second glass of wine instead.
“The entirety of his time as Pakhan. All seventeen years.”
I learned that my new husband is twelve years my senior when we signed our marriage certificate. If he’s thirty-six now and he’s been Pakhan for seventeen years—my eyes widen as I do the math.
“Seventeen years… so he became Pakhan when he was only nineteen? How? I mean why did he become Pakhan at such a young age?”
“His father died, mother too,” Yaro says dryly. “He took up the mantle without hesitation."
He picks up his fork and shovels the pasta into his mouth. As if to stop himself from saying more.
“How did they die?” I ask softly.
Taking another bite, Yaro doesn’t answer right away. The wheels in his head visibly turn, considering the possible implications of revealing more.
“His parents, they were… different,” he finally says.
Eyes distant, jaw suddenly tense. “My father, he was close to the Pakhan. His right hand you could say. They wanted out. Out of the filthiest parts of the underworld. Out of the sex trade. Together they started dismantling the rings that made some of the families millions.”
My stomach turns. “Sex-trafficking?”
He nods. “The girls were all young, underage mostly. Brought over from Ukraine, Belarus, wherever they could be quietly acquired from. Bought and sold like livestock. Tolya’s parents were determined to shut it down here in the city.
But it got them killed before they could complete the job. All of them.”
“They were killed?” I ask in shock, not surprised by the fact but wondering how and why. Death is common enough amongst our kind. “By whom?”
“Another house. Bratva politics. Too much money was lost, too many secrets exposed,” he says, taking another sip of wine.
I go quiet, letting the information set in. Swallowing hard.
“Tolya was barely out of school when he took over,” Yaro adds. “Just shy of his eighteenth birthday. He had no time to grieve and very few people he could trust. It added fire to his blood and that fire burned into a name that many will never forget.”
“He’s still burning it down…” I murmur.
“There’s been a lot of progress over the years. The Albanians, the Irish, the Triad. He’s pushed them all out of the trade. Only one family remains in the game.” His eyes lock onto mine as he says the last part.
And instantly I know who.
“Don De Mello,” I whisper. “I should have known.”
The mood lightens after that. Yaro asks about my childhood and what it’s like growing up in the Italian folds. I tell him of my adventures with Nico, all the ways I invented over the years to torture my older brother while staying within the lines of respectable behavior.
We’re laughing at some story about one of Tolya’s bodyguards misplacing a shipment of rare wine and how he nearly tears apart the city to find the cases when the elevator dings. Announcing Tolya’s arrival.
He steps into the kitchen, dark coat draped over one arm, jaw set in a hard line. His eyes find mine first. Then they go to Yaro. Then to the wine glasses and then back to me.
The air shifts instantly, suddenly charged with an uncomfortable electricity.
“We were just talking,” I say innocently.
Tolya’s voice is cold when he finally speaks. “I can see that.”
“That’s my cue,” Yaro says coolly, standing then taking his plate and glass to the sink. Clearly feeling the displacement in the air. “I’ll take my leave and let you two enjoy your evening. Thank you for the company, Eva.”
He steps from the kitchen, retreating quickly toward the elevator.
“Anytime–” I stammer, my stomach in knots under Tolya’s persistent gaze.
“You look comfortable.” His eyes stay on me, colder than I’ve seen them in days. “You always laugh like that with other men?”
“Excuse me?” I demand. “Are you jealous?”
In a barbaric move straight out of some soap opera, he moves faster than my eyes can track him.
Spinning the barstool I’m sitting on and throwing me over his shoulder in one simultaneous instant.
I squeal, kicking my legs and pounding my fists on his back as he strides down the hallway to his office.
Kicking the door closed behind us, he swipes everything off the top of his oversized desk and sits me down on it. Lodging his hips between my legs as he pulls me to the edge. His hands grip into my waist.
“Let’s get one thing straight right here, right now,” he growls, his lips inches from my own. “I do not get jealous.”
For the first time since the day of our wedding, he kisses me. That same possessive undertaking strikes a chord of hot and heavy desire through my core as our tongues dance.
He plunges a hand into my hair, nibbling my lower lip, our tongues matching each other stroke for stroke. I don’t know how long we are there, exploring each other, lost in the moment. But when he finally pulls away, I’m gasping to catch my breath and his chest rises and falls just as harshly.
“I will remind you that you are mine. Not his.”
The words send a thrill down my spine, matched with a flare of indignation all at once. I lean into him, licking my lips as I almost brush against him.
“You are jealous,” I whisper, a shit eating grin enveloping my face.
Typical hard ass man, won’t admit when he’s caught.
“I find it amusing,” I tease, nearly touching my lips to his, looking up at him with an expression of tantalizing innocence.
Two can play this game, Tolya.
His eyes narrow as he looks down on me, his usually crystal blue eyes dark and stormy, matching his mood. But he does the opposite of what I expect—he pulls away completely.
“Go get dressed. We have a dinner party to attend.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, continuing to tidy up the mess he’s made. “It’s a business affair and I need my wife in attendance, presentable and well behaved.”
I blink at him, confused by the sudden switch.
“So I’m to play the dutiful wife even though we’ve spent little time together?” I ask softly.
“You are to play your part. You’ve attended plenty of these with your brother, it’s not that different.” He stops for a second, pinning me with a stern look. “Though I would insist you refrain from flirting with any man besides your own husband. It would reflect poorly on our marriage.”
“Are you serious?” I exclaim, appalled by his insinuation.
He doesn’t dignify me with a response. Just turns, opens the door to the office, and walks out into the hallway.
“Get dressed,” he calls over his shoulder. “I had a dress sent up for you earlier, and there should be several sets of jewels for you to choose from.”
He disappears, leaving me sitting on his desk, pulse racing. Unsure if I want to scream at him or kiss him again.
Probably a bit of both.