“Hmm,” I mutter, edging toward the island. “That smells amazing.”
The old chef glances over his shoulder and smiles at me. “Good evening, Mrs. Nazarov.”
Mrs. Nazarov.
It’s interesting how much I’ve gotten used to that name over the last couple of weeks. I no longer get goosebumps or a sinking feeling in my stomach when someone calls me that. The name now feels like it belongs to no one else but me.
I lean over the counter, staring at the colorful veggies. “What are you making?”
His smile widens. “Fried chicken, roasted potatoes, garlic vegetables, and mushroom sauce.”
I stare at him. That seems like a lot of food for just two people, unless we’re having guests that I’m unaware of. Usually, the other staff get a share of the food he makes, but most of them are off work today.
“And…how many people exactly are you planning to feed tonight?”
Mr. Petrov chuckles. “Three.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Are we having a guest?”
Tatiana didn’t tell me she’d be visiting, and so far none of Leonid’s cousins have joined us for a meal. I plan to change that as soon as I get accustomed to being a member of their family.
“Your husband eats enough food for two men.”
“Oh.” I laugh, a pang of relief hitting me instantly. “Well, he’s a rather huge man. It’s not a surprise he eats a lot.”
I plan on making a meal for him someday, but I don’t know how to make much other than pasta and chicken wings with fries, which are my favorite. My mom did most of the cooking while I was growing up, and even while I lived alone, I rarely had the energy to make a meal for myself.
It catches me off guard that I’m even considering doing that for Leonid.
I glance at the tray of chicken again.
Then at the pan hissing as Petrov stirs bell peppers, onions, and green beans together. Everything glistens beneath a coating of butter and herbs.
My stomach growls again, and it’s louder this time.
The chef laughs. “Dinner will be ready in a couple of minutes, Mrs. Nazarov. Do you want me to get you something while you wait?”
“No, it’s fine.” I walk to the fridge and grab a pot of sweetened strawberry yogurt. “Oh, and it’s fine to call me Elena. The whole Mrs. Nazarov thing sounds a little…too formal.”
“The boss won’t like that,” he counters.
“I’m the mistress of this household, remember?” I don’t like to pull rank, but if it means I get to defy my darling husband, then I can’t resist. It’s fun, actually. “How long have you been working here?”
“Over three decades,” the old man answers, barely glancing over his shoulder.
My throat clenches and I almost choke on my yogurt. My eyes blur. “Over three decades?”
That’s way before I was born.
Concern flickers across his face as he finally turns to look at me, and after confirming I’m okay, he returns to the veggies in the pan. “The Nazarovs have always been particular about who makes their food.”
“Why? Do they have a secret recipe they can’t expose to the rest of the world?”
“Far from it.” He adds more herbs to the mix. “The underworld is nothing like what you’re used to. The bratva have too many enemies. Every day a new threat emerges, and even the slightest lowering of one’s guard can cost them their life.”
My chest tightens and a shiver runs down my spine. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It is, much more than you think.” He turns off the stove and gives me his full attention. “It’s why trust and loyalty matters in the bratva. One wrong move can be the difference between life and death. Know who to trust and who not to. It’s the only way to survive in this world.”
