Her eyes snap up immediately. "Excuse me?"
"I said boring," I repeat, smirking slightly. "All that paperwork. I'm pretty sure you crave more.... excitement, am I right, angel?."
"Not everyone needs to break bones to feel alive, Mr. Ivanovich," she says coldly.
I laugh. "Touché. Fair point." I take a sip of my wine, then ask, "What about family? Any siblings?"
"No, I'm an only child" she says simply.
"Parents?" Her expression dulls.
"My mother passed away recently." I pause, not knowing if I should continue the family questioning.
"I'm sorry," I say, trying to placate her.
She nods stiffly, accepting my apology. "And you? Any family?"
"I have a troublesome little sister named Natalya, living in Moscow, but I don't see her often.," I say.
"Close?" she asks cautiously,
"Close enough. She calls me when she needs money," I say with a slight shrug. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her lips for a second. Then it's gone, replaced by that cold mask she wears so well. "What about hobbies?" I ask, wanting to see that smile again. "What do you do when you're not taking up dangerous jobs?"
"Read," she says.
"What kind of books?" I press.
"Fiction. Thrillers mostly," she answers, her tone making it clear she's only responding out of politeness.
"Any good ones you'd recommend?" I ask.
She raises an eyebrow at me. "You read?"
"I can read," I say, grinning.
"That's not what I asked," she points out.
I grin wider. "No. I don't read much. I'm Too busy."
"Doing what? Threatening people?" she asks, the humor gone from her voice.
"Among other things," I say casually.
She sets down her fork with a sharp clink against the plate. "You know what? I don't think I want to know."
"That's Probably for the best," I agree. Silence falls between us as she picks at her food, pushing a piece of asparagus around her plate, and I could tell, She clearly wants to be anywhere but here, and it's written all over her face.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. "You really hate this, don't you?"
"What gave it away?" she asks dryly.
"The fact that you've been gripping that knife like you're planning my murder," I say, nodding toward her hand.
She glances down at her hand wrapped around the butter knife. Her knuckles are white. She loosens her grip slightly. "Look," I say, my tone softening by a fraction. "I know you don't want to be here. But we're here. So we might as well make the best of it."
"The best of it would be me leaving," she says flatly.
"You could," I acknowledge. "But you won't."
