We stood there for a moment, the silence between us comfortable in a way it hadn't been before. Something had changed—not just the kiss, not just the conversation about our mothers, but this. Watching her hold her own with Kirill. Seeing her refuse to be a victim.
"You haven't eaten," I said. "Neither have I. We should fix that."
"Is that your way of asking me to have lunch with you?"
"It's my way of saying we both need food and the kitchen is twenty feet away." I gestured toward the door. "But if you want to call it a date, I won't argue."
"A date." She shook her head, but she was smiling now—a real smile, small but genuine. "We're married, living in the same apartment, hiding from people who want to kill me, and you're asking me on a date."
"I never claimed to have good timing."
"No. You really don't."
But she followed me to the kitchen anyway.
I cooked. Nothing elaborate—pasta with olive oil and garlic, a salad thrown together from whatever was in the refrigerator—but it felt strangely domestic. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with physical contact.
She sat at the island and watched me work, her chin propped on her hand, asking questions about the ingredients, the technique, where I'd learned to cook.
"My mother," I said, stirring the pasta. "She insisted that all of us learn. Said she wasn't raising men who couldn't feed themselves."
"Smart woman."
"She was." I drained the pasta, tossed it with the oil and garlic. "Demyan never took to it. Kirill learned because she told him to, but I don't think he's cooked a meal since she died. Mikhail was actually good—better than me. He used to experiment, try new recipes."
"And you?"
"I cook when I need to think. It's meditative. Following steps, measuring ingredients, creating something from raw materials." I plated the food and set one in front of her. "Plus, it impresses women."
"Does it?"
"You tell me."
She twirled pasta around her fork, took a bite, and her eyes widened slightly. "Okay. I'm impressed."
"See? Works every time."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, casting longshadows across the counter. Outside, the city hummed with its usual energy, oblivious to our situation.
"Tell me something," she said. "Something that has nothing to do with the Petrovics or the Irish or any of this."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Something normal. Something you'd tell someone on an actual first date."
I thought about it. What did people talk about on first dates? It had been so long since I'd been on one that wasn't a prelude to a business arrangement or a one-night stand.
"I hate opera," I said.
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her. "That's what you're going with?"
"You said something normal. I hate opera. Everyone assumes I love it because I'm Russian and wealthy, so I end up at these interminable performances, pretending to be moved by people screaming in Italian while I count the minutes until I can leave."
"What do you actually like?"
"Jazz. Old movies. Books that aren't about business or strategy or any of the things I'm supposed to care about." I twirled more pasta around my fork. "I read a lot of poetry when I was younger. Before everything happened. Before I had to become this."
"You read poetry?"
