“Your secret, or Amir’s, is safe with me,” I said slowly. “But I can understand your family’s stance.”
She frowned. “You can?”
“Yes. Just think, Dina, he’s wanted by Interpol.”
“They’ll never get him.”
“You’ll never be able to go on a honeymoon outside this country.”
She shrugged. “Albania has all I need. Mountains, sea, lakes, the only man for me. What more could I want?”
She was clearly blind, but a part of me envied her devotion.
“Let’s talk about something else.” I decided it wasn’t the time to harp on things I knew little about. “Tell me what you do for fun. Outside of driving your mafia boss.”
She giggled. “Honestly, not much. I’m working on finishing my archeology degree.”
My eyebrows arched. “Wow, I didn’t see that one coming.”
“It’s unusual, but I love playing in the dirt. And you?”
I tilted my head, wondering if she knew and was just feigning interest.
“I’m an OB-GYN.”
Our drinks arrived and it would seem the waiter decided to go the extra mile because they were in absurd flamingo-shaped glasses—even her water. Either that, or he took pity on my companion for babysitting me.
Once he moved to serve another table, she continued her line of questioning.
“You always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Growing up, I’d set up pretend hospitals with my dolls, and there was always a pregnant one in active labor. I chuckled and shook my head. “I was lucky that my aunt and my cousin recognized it and helped me achieve it.”
“What about your parents?”
“They died when I was young.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
I smiled, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug.
“It’s not a sore subject. It was an accident.” I paused, then added more softly, “My aunt and my cousin, Kristoff, jumped in right away and took me into their home. We were close even before everything happened, so… it didn’t feel like I was being passed around.”
She nodded, understanding settling in her expression. For a moment, neither of us spoke. We both took slow sips of our drinkswhile the bass thumped through the room, lyrics spilling from the speakers in a language I didn’t recognize.
Another Albanian song, I guessed, even as I found myself wondering when Dua Lipa would come on next. It was only a matter of time.
The silence stretched, comfortable yet somehow loaded.
“Do you like Kian?” she asked casually, as if she were commenting on the soup of the day.
I almost spit out my drink. I swallowed hard, the liquid burning its way down, then said, “How did you go from my family to Kian?”
“He’s my boss, and I’m trying to figure you out.” The explanation made no sense. “I don’t know you. You could be a player.”
“And so could your boss,” I pointed out. “I can assure you, with that body of his, he’s probably gone through more relationships than I would in ten lifetimes.”
“But you threw yourself at him.”
