“Pesto lamb chops and the risotto in forty-five minutes, if you would,” he told this‘Nastinka,’then turned to me with an expression which made me feel like the only woman in the room. “Try the oysters.”
I almost reached, but should have known better because he already held one out between his fingers, his attention fixed on my lips.
“I’ve never had one,” I said, staring at the ice-cooled jiggly awfulness in his hand.
“It’s alright. Open your mouth,” he said slowly. “Don’t swallow when it hits your tongue. Take your time. Enjoy it.”
Oh my God,I thought, his velvet words tasting better than any outrageously expensive shellfish could.
His thumb brushed my lips, parting them with a heavy breath…
Then it slipped into my mouth… and I immediately gagged.
Oh no—
I looked at him helplessly, the slimy thing still inside because I was afraid if I swallowed it, everything would come right back up. This salty, wet snot-jelly was easily the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had, and that included eating a multi-legged bug on a dare in fourth grade.
He gave me a crooked smile and sipped his champagne. “I hate oysters.”
I spit it out into a napkin, and the laugh exploded out of my chest so suddenly, there was no lady-like way to cover it up. “Oh my God—how—whywould you do that to me?”
“I told you, Kotik, I want to find out what you like. Everything you like. We just have to try it all one at a time, and see how it feels.” He was grinning; my tear-inducing giggles were apparently contagious. “Here, wash it down.”
“I think I need vodka to burn the taste out of my mouth…”
His face lost its humor. “No vodka. Order whatever you like, Katya, but never vodka.” He patted my knee with a softened expression. “The mimosa salad is better—”
“Blyad!”
The deep voice did such a good job disturbing the ambiance that nearly every patron’s head turned. The giant man stoodin the doorway, wearing a huge smile and a peacoat that must have taken a hundred sheep’s worth of wool to craft.
Vitali rubbed his temple, the frustration and weary acceptance leaving him in a deep exhale.
Misha gestured toward us. The big man wasn’t alone.
6
The Leather Pants
Misha wasn’t alone.
Three women and two men accompanied him, and of course, one of them had to be Ana.
The guys were some flavor of thug with thick necks and torn-up knuckles, with gold chains resting in a field of dark, curly hair on their chests. The women were tall and wore leather pants, fashionable chokers, and expressions of general boredom and disgust.
Vitali’s face was a swear word he didn’t voice, but he stood and when Misha came over, they firmly shook hands. Two tables scraped the wooden floor as they pushed them flush with ours, splashing the champagne and destroying my hopes for a romantic evening.
“Mish, get the hell out of here,” Vitali said, the words both calm and threatening, and completely useless against the already drunk Misha.
“And here I was, thinking it was too early for dinner.” There was a certain joy on his face that fully understood what heinterrupted. “And what is this? You hate oysters.” His paw-of-a-hand closed in on them from across the table.
The others sat down, the women shimmying into whatever space they could find. They pulled out their own chairs, I noted smugly.
“Oh, is that Katya?” Ana said, as if she’d only then recognized me. Somehow, this was doubtful. “What a surprise!” She leaned over to another girl and whispered something. Her friend raised an eyebrow at me, shamelessly whispered back, and they both glanced at Vitali.
“Nastishka!” Misha bellowed. “Bring bread andschi! And veal cutlets!”
“Da,Mish.” The server affectionately laid a hand on his shoulder. “You want your bottle of Ararat?”
