I gingerly take the pendant from him, holding it in my hands with awe and care, as though it’s a newborn child or something. I’ve never touched something so beautiful, so valuable. The sapphire glitters in my palm and I stare at it open-mouthed, almost afraid to move.
Ivan chuckles, which breaks me out of my reverie. He takes the pendant from me and, holding it up expectantly, asks, “May I?”
After a moment of shocked hesitation, I nod vigorously and lift my hair off my neck so that he can reach around and fasten the necklace around my neck. I look down at the sparkling gem nested on my collarbone and have to stifle an embarrassed smile at how badly it clashes with my too-casual red tank top. It’s sort of like putting a diamond tiara on a clump of dirt.
But when I glance up at Ivan, he’s got this starry look in his eyes. Even though his mouth is still set in a hard line, the warmth in his shining eyes softens his whole expression. He might as well be beaming. “You are beautiful,” he says.
I notice the carriage driver steal a look over his shoulder back at us, and he gives me a quick, unobtrusive wink before facing away again. Ivan kisses me slow and deep, his lips warm and expressive against my own. He cups my face gently with one large hand, and I can feel the callouses there from years of working, of fighting. Distantly, some part of me rails against the fact that these hands have been stained with so much blood, have wrung the life from many a body. But in this moment, in Central Park under the early evening glow, with the whole city in celebration… it’s easier to ignore.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my cheeks burning.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
I nod and smile at him broadly. “Where are we going?”
Ivan puts a finger to my lips, reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out the black blindfold again. I start to laugh and protest, but he shakes his head, a bemused look on his face.
“Another surprise?” I giggle.
“I am full of them,” Ivan replies lightheartedly.
“That you are,” I answer softly as he ties the blindfold around my eyes again. I feel him get up and move forward, and I can barely hear him giving some kind of command to the carriage driver, but I can’t make out the words. The driver makes an affirmative grunt and the pace quickens. I can hear the horse chuffing and its hoof beats speeding up.
Several minutes later, the carriage pulls to a stop and Ivan gets up again to pay the driver. Then he takes me by both hands and guides me to my feet. I take a couple wobbly steps forward before Ivan scoops me up in his arms and lowers me out of the carriage with effortless grace.
He leads me for what feels like several blocks, and I just know people have got to be staring at us. A huge, hulking Russian guy leading a petite girl in a blindfold down the street has to be a bizarre sight to behold. But the embarrassment pales in comparison to my excitement. Honestly, I don’t much care as to where we end up, as long as I’m with him.
A few minutes later, he murmurs into my ear, “Okay. We’re here.” He unties the blindfold and I stand blinking under the streetlamps, looking around in amazement and confusion. I know we’re not far from Central Park, but beyond that I have no idea where we are. This isn’t a part of town I can normally afford to visit.
“The bars and clubs will be full of St. Patrick’s Day people tonight,” Ivan explains, “but I doubt any of them will go here.”
He leads me into an opulent restaurant, far too fancy for the way I’m dressed. The sapphire pendant is the only part of me acceptable in a place like this. I look around in stunned silence at the magnificent interior design, the high ceilings and low lighting. The burgundy and mahogany walls are lit by candles and intricate glass fixtures. There are motifs of bears and heavy industrial art decorating the place, and huge, multi-level chandeliers hanging from the arched ceilings. After a few minutes, I finally realize that this is a Russian restaurant, and I feel a rush of warmth toward Ivan. It makes me happy to know that he is so eager to share his identity, his heritage with me.
The maître d’ does give me a look of slight disgust upon seeing my casual, low-quality clothes, but that disappears quickly after a withering glare from Ivan. After that, it’s as though everyone in the restaurant catches on and realizes that if you mess with me, you’ve got to be prepared to tangle with Ivan, too. And nobody really wants to do that.
So they seat us at a corner table with a candle flickering in the middle of it. Ivan guides me through the menu, pointing out items that he used to eat as a young boy back in Russia. We both order vodka to start, and although I am normally not a fan of most liquor on its own, this is so high quality that even I love it. Mine is a vanilla vodka, and his is made with artesian water from Siberian springs. To be honest, I don’t really know what any of that means, but Ivan appears to appreciate it, so I don’t question it. He then orders us borscht, foie gras, braised duck, and several kinds of caviar I’ve never heard of before. I cannot even imagine how expensive this must be, but Ivan looks entirely at ease and I decide it’s probably better not to ask.