14. Cady
Cady
Velvet drapes the color of aged wine frame floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city in the restaurant.
Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen constellations overhead, their light warm and golden, designed to make everyone look like they belong in a place this expensive.
The tables are spaced far enough apart that conversations remain private, intimate islands in a sea of wealth and discretion.
And waitstaff who move like ghosts, present when needed, invisible when not.
It's just the kind of place Misha would choose.
He's already seated when I arrive. Misha Makarov doesn't wait for anyone, but he makes it look like he's been counting the seconds until I walk through the door.
He rises as I approach. The charcoal suit is bespoke, cut perfectly to his lean frame, his shirt open at the collar.
His dark hair is styled with the kind of careless precision that takes effort to achieve.
"Cady." He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. "You look stunning as always, babe.”
"You look like you're trying to get laid," I reply, and he laughs, completely unbothered.
"Always." He pulls out my chair, waits until I'm seated, then returns to his own. "But tonight, I'm also trying to feed you. The chef here is exceptional. You'll love it."
A waiter appears, pouring water into crystal glasses and presenting us with leather-bound menus.
Misha waves his menu away without looking at it. "We'll start with the oysters and the burrata. For mains, I'll have the duck, and the lady will have..." He glances at me, one eyebrow raised in question.
"The halibut." I've learned that letting Misha order for me makes him think he has more control than he does.
"Perfect. And bring us a bottle of the Chablis to start. The Premier Cru."
The waiter nods and disappears, and Misha leans back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes that would miss very little if he ever bothered to look past the surface.
But that's the thing about Misha—he doesn't dig. He's content with what's presented to him, especially when what's presented is beautiful and smiling and sitting across from him in a restaurant that costs a small fortune to dine at.
"You seem different tonight." He reaches for the vodka that's waiting at his place setting.
"Different how?" I keep my voice light, curious, like I'm genuinely interested in his assessment rather than calculating how much he's noticed and whether it's a problem.
"I don't know. More..." He waves his hand vaguely, searching for the word. "Intense. Like you're thinking very hard about something."
I am.
I'm thinking about hands on my thighs and a voice in my ear, and the way my body betrayed me in my office.
I'm thinking about how I ran like a coward and how my heart was still racing hours later. How I can still feel the ghost of a touch on my skin.
But I'm not about to tell Misha any of that.
I’m also not going to tell him that I’ve considered letting Rian or Killian make him disappear.
"Just work." I shrug dismissively. "Long day. Too many meetings with people who think they're more important than they are."
"Ah." He nods and takes a sip of his vodka. "Then tonight, we don't talk about work. Tonight, we talk about pleasure and all the things that make life worth living."
“You think pleasure is the only thing worth living for, Misha.”
He winks at me. “I mean, look at who I’m fucking. She’s absolutely stunning.”
He means it.
But not long-term.
And that’s okay with me. I don’t want a relationship past what I’ve faked for my family’s intel.
However, I still feel guilty about what happened earlier with his brother.
And it’s ridiculous.
Misha is easy. Misha is uncomplicated. Misha doesn't look at me like he wants to crack me open and see what's inside. He looks at me like I'm a beautiful thing to be enjoyed, and right now, that's what I need.
The oysters arrive on a bed of crushed ice, and Misha picks one up, tips it back, and swallows it with obvious pleasure.
"Heaven," he declares, and gestures for me to try one.
I hate oysters.
However, I’m supposed to be perfect so he doesn’t stray or look for someone new.
Not until I’m done with him.
Taking one, I let the cold brine and mineral taste flood my mouth, and I want to puke.
With everything in me, I swallow and reach for my water.
"Good?" Misha is watching me with an easy smile.
"Very."
"I knew you'd like it. You have excellent taste." He says it like it's a compliment to himself as much as to me.
"So," Misha says, selecting another oyster, "I was talking to Ilya yesterday. You remember Ilya?”
"Rings a bell."
I don’t remember this man.
It was probably someone he introduced once, for three seconds, and carted me off somewhere else to meet more people.
"He's getting married. Can you believe it? Ilya. The man once told me he'd rather cut off his hand than settle down with one woman, and now he's picking out china patterns."
"Good for Ilya." I keep my voice carefully neutral. "I hope she knows what she's getting into."
"She does. She's terrifying. They're perfect for each other." He pauses, swirling the vodka in his glass, and I can see the thought forming before he speaks it. "Makes you think, though, doesn't it? About the future, about settling down, about—"
"No."
The word comes out sharper than I intended. A blade of deflection, and Misha blinks in surprise before his expression shifts into amusement.
"No?"
"No.”
For a moment, I think I've miscalculated, that I've been too harsh, too honest. But then Misha laughs, genuine and warm.
"Easy, babe. I wasn't proposing.” He's still smiling. "You're very passionate about not getting married. It's cute."
Cute.
Misha launches into a story about Ilya’s fiancée, who once threatened to castrate a man with a butter knife at a charity gala. I laugh in all the right places and ask all the right questions.
Our dinner arrives; mine surrounded by heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil. We eat, and I let myself relax incrementally, letting the food, the wine, and Misha's easy charm do their work.
"How are things with Artem?" Misha asks, and just like that, the careful peace after my first bite shatters.
The man who looked at me like I was something to be conquered.
The man who makes me feel things I have no business feeling.
"Things with Artem," I repeat slowly, buying myself time to choose my words carefully. “Would be much better if Artem didn't exist in my space.”
Misha laughs. "He's not that bad, babe.”
“He ate my sandwich.” He blinks at me. “My sandwich, Misha.”
“I’m…” He looks confused. “Sorry?”
"He's intrusive and overbearing, and I don't need a babysitter. Tell him to back off, Misha. Better yet, tell him to disappear. I can take care of myself."
"I know you can." He sets down his fork, and there's something serious in his expression now.
Thoughtful. It's rare enough that it catches my attention.
"But humor me. You're spending time with me, and that means you're part of my world now.
And in my world, beautiful women attract attention. Not all of it is friendly."
"I can handle attention."
"I'm sure you can. But Artem is good at what he does. He keeps people safe. Keeps them out of trouble. Besides, Benedikt asked him to keep an eye on things. On you. It's not personal."
Benedikt.
The name I've been waiting for to be dropped casually into conversation. Like it's not the entire reason I'm sitting here, eating oysters and pretending to be charmed by a man I'm using.
"Benedikt," I say, as if the name is only mildly interesting to me. "Your boss. The one you keep promising to introduce me to."
"I will. When the time is right." Misha's tone is still light, but there's something underneath it that suggests I'm approaching a boundary I shouldn't cross. "He's a busy man. Important. But he's heard about you. He's curious."
"Curious how?"
"Curious about the Irish woman who's caught my attention. Curious about whether you're someone we can trust." He says it like it's a compliment rather than a warning. "That's why Artem is around. Just making sure everything is... appropriate."
“I thought it was to protect me.”
“That, too.”
“Those are two different things, Misha.”
“They are.” His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. “And you’re not…” I make a face because he’s playing me. Artem got to him. “You’re not someone who’s going to be in my life for a short time, babe. I plan on… keeping you around for a while.”
“Why?”
This isn’t what I signed up for. I wanted him to be attracted to me enough to form something, but I don’t want him thinking about it long-term.
“Like I said.” He smirks, arrogance lighting up his features. “I like fucking you.”
“That all?”
“I like a lot of things about you.”
“Enough to skip the rest of this dinner and get out of here?”
His hazel eyes dance with excitement over the ideas of what that could mean, and a dinner that costs a couple of bands is nothing to him.
My pussy, however, is exclusive.
Power.
The daughter of a powerful Irish mobster.
And now, I’m starting to wonder who’s playing who? Did Misha get one up on me, or is he still that dense?
Now, I don’t know.
Misha motions for the bill and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Your place or mine.”
You mean your brother’s?
“Depends.”
He perks a brow. “On?”
“Wherever your brother isn’t.” Misha stares at me. “I’m hoping you’ll make me scream tonight.”
Misha wastes no time standing, plucking out his wallet and tossing a bunch of bills on the table.
He doesn’t count them.
Sex is his language, and I just spoke it the way he understands it.
Rounding the table, he reaches out and gives me his hand. I take it and allow him to lead me out. He calls one of his men to get my car home; he’ll drive me in the morning.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’re going to feel me for days,” he murmurs against my hair, and I hear the satisfaction in his voice. He thinks he's won something.
Let him believe whatever he wants to believe.
As long as it keeps me from having to face Artem alone, I’ll let him touch me all night just so I don’t fall into the arms of the devil.