If anything, it looks like fury.
38
PETYR
Dinner is quiet at first. We sit across from each other at a no-name diner that Sima recommended. The food is greasy to the point I start worrying about busting a coronary just from eating a single bite.
But Sima seems to love it, so I make myself eat.
“Ahhh,” she hums like she’s in heaven. “Fried chicken and waffles. Breakfast of champions.”
“We’re having dinner.”
“Same difference.” She waves away my protest, then fixes her eyes on my fork. “You always look like you’re negotiating a truce with your food.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare at people while they eat?”
“Nope.” She flashes me a cheeky, greasy grin. “Besides, it’s hard not to.”
“Is it?”
“Yep.” She pops another unspeakably oily bite in her mouth. “Especially when you sit there glaring at that piece of fried chicken like it owes you money.”
“It might.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips curve. “Poor chicken. Shaken down by the big bad Bratva boss.”
I shake my head, but the sound that escapes me is closer to a laugh than a sigh. She’s the only one who can get away with shit like this. Anyone else, I’d have skewered with my fork.
But with Sima, it doesn’t feel like disrespect. It just feels… normal. Easy.
We eat a little more in companionable silence. I watch her guzzle down what feels like half a gallon of sugary soda. How she keeps that slim figure is beyond me.
“You know,” she pipes up after she’s done, “for a criminal kingpin, you’ve got surprisingly decent table manners. I expected more burping and, like, knife waving.”
“Knife waving?” I repeat, incredulous.
“Yeah. Like, stab the air to make a point while quoting some terrifying proverb you definitely made up. Isn’t that part of the job description?”
“You’re confusing me withThe Godfather.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve been hiding your true, dramatic self. Should I be worried you’re going to pull out a monologue with dessert?”
“Depends on the dessert,” I say, deadpan. “But if it’s anything fried or sugary, I’ll have to ask my lawyer to step in.”
She bursts into laughter, full and warm. For a second, the tension of the day slips from my shoulders. I never cared for dinners with women before. Never cared to extend my acquaintance with them beyond the bedroom.
But this? Sitting here, listening to her tease me, feeling her bright eyes on me as if she’s actually seeing me instead of the Gubarevpakhan? It’s refreshing. I could get used to it.
I realize that must have been exactly her intention—to cheer me up after that hospital visit.
I shouldn’t have taken Sima there. She asked for a day off. Instead, I cooped her up in a museum for hours and then brought her to meet my dying brother. Not exactly date material.
But seeing all those relics reminded me of the person who introduced me to my passion for history. Dimitri used to listen to me for hours, always interested in what I had to say. I’m not proud of the moment of weakness, but I also can’t fully bring myself to regret showing Sima to the most important person in my life.
This might be fake, but Dimitri would have wanted to know the woman I married.
He would have loved her.That sobering thought wipes away any appetite I had for dessert.They could have spent hours joking at my expenses.
