It’s odd. It’s unnatural.
It’s…
Nice. It’s actually kind of nice.
Guess we’re going to Paganini’s.
20
PETYR
I pull up outside Paganini’s and throw the keys to the valet, Tony. He catches them on the fly, like he always does.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Gubarev,” he salutes.
I nod at him, then open the car door for Sima.
At the same moment, Marcello appears at the top of the stairs. “Petyr!” he says warmly, coming down to greet me. He claps me on the shoulder once, his grip firm and friendly. If anybody else tried that, I’d have their hand mounted on the fireplace, but this is Marcello we’re talking about. We go way back. “It’s been too long since you’ve graced my dining room.”
“Been busy,” I reply.
“When aren’t you?” He lets out a booming laugh. “And this must be the new missus I’ve been hearing so much about!”
I turn to Sima just in time to see her stepping out of the car. She holds my outstretched hand and rises, graceful like a nymph, her black cocktail dress hugging her in all the rightplaces. Her caramel hair catches the warm light spilling from the entrance, and her eyelashes curve gently as she tilts her head in greeting.
For a second, I have to remind myself this isn’t about me enjoying the view.
Marcello’s eyes drink Sima in. He was never shy about appreciating beautiful women. He’s lucky I know how devoted he is to his wife; otherwise, I’d have to forcefully remind him to keep his hands off other people’s brides.
“Incantato,” he says, bending as if to kiss her hand but wisely not touching it with his lips. “I see the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?” Sima asks.
“That you’re as beautiful as a goddess.”
“She’s married, Marcello,” I remind him. “As are you.”
“Then what do you say I give the happy couple the royal treatment tonight?” He claps his hands once. “Come! I have your favorite table ready.”
I hook my arm through Sima’s and lead her through the doors.
As we cross the dining room, her eyes look ready to fall out of their sockets. The crystal chandeliers and frescoed ceilings tend to have that effect, but Sima doesn’t look like she’s just appreciating the status. If anything, she seems to be drinking in the beauty of it, the art.
She’s the first date I’ve brought here who ever has.
“You really didn’t need to go through this much trouble,” she murmurs, starstruck. “I really would have been fine with falafel.”
“Don’t let Marcello hear you say that. He’ll have a stroke.”
“I’m serious,” she insists. “It’s too much.”
“Nothing’s too much for my wife,” I say without thinking. When I glance at Sima next, her cheeks are the same color as the carpet. “Besides, we skipped the wedding dinner. No reception, no cake. Consider this my way of making up for it.”
“Fine,” she huffs eventually. “But I’m not getting the caviar. I don’t want to train my palate to enjoy the finer things in life too much.”
The reason for that hangs between us. We’re on a deadline, she and I, and we both know it.
I push that thought aside and follow Marcello to our table. “Ta-da!” he says theatrically. “Best table in the house, reserved for you as always.”
