Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel(111)

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.

Everything we eat is absolutely beautiful in its presentation and even more so in its flavor. I find myself utterly blown away by every bite I lift to my mouth, and warmed by Ivan’s enthusiasm for it. Every different item that I try is met with an excited question from Ivan, wanting to know if I like it and what I think about it. And watching him eat is almost wonderful enough just on its own. I can tell that this food is more than just a meal to him — it’s a taste of home, of a life he can never truly have again. He is transported back to his childhood for the duration of the meal, and it’s a lovely thing to watch. I am seeing a different side of him, full of wonder and lightness. It’s a sharp comparison to the usual cold, no-nonsense hit man the rest of the world sees in him.

I feel honored. It feels truly special to witness such a tender aspect of his character.

For dessert, Ivan tells the waiter to bring us cheese-and-berry blintzes, as well as a bottle of muscat wine from Napa Valley. By this point I am already so full that the idea of trying to ingest anything else is a little intimidating, but the pure joy with which Ivan greets the arrival of our blintzes renders me unable to say no.

“These were my favorite as a boy,” Ivan says. “My father, he worked long hours, so when I was young he often had me stay with an old woman in our building. Her name was Galina, but I called her babushka. Grandmother.”

“She was your babysitter?” I prod, hoping for more. It doesn’t happen often, but I adore hearing stories from his past.

Ivan gives me a noncommittal head-shake. “More or less. But she was not paid by the hour like most nannies are here in America. Instead, my father paid her rent and many of her other expenses. She was, you see, closer to my father and I than a mere babysitter. She was the closest to a mother I can clearly recall. She was a very old woman, quiet and reclusive, and fragile. My father knew she was struggling to get by, and she had always been fond of me anyway, so it was an arrangement which benefited us all.”

“That’s so sweet.”

Ivan smiles faintly. “I suppose so. And babushka made the best blintzes. I used to beg her for them. So when I made good marks in school, when I behaved myself, she rewarded me with them.”

“What a good woman,” I say. Ivan takes my hand and kisses it.

“One of the best I have ever known. She is the one who taught me to respect and protect women. You see, my father taught me to be a hard man, but Galina showed me how to be soft.”

“Then I have a lot to thank her for,” I reply. Ivan nods.

“She died when I was twelve. But she lived a very long, interesting life. She was ninety-one when she passed, you know,” he adds proudly.

We spend the next hour or so talking and cuddling, slowly draining a bottle of wine between the two of us. By the time the bottle is empty, we are both heavy-eyed and happy. The sharp, intimidating hit man is still present in his rigid, upright posture, and in his occasional dodging glance. He is authoritative when he speaks to the restaurant staff, and his firm hand on my thigh under the table is a reminder of his strength and control over me.

But I see now, more than ever, the genuine human being beneath it all. And I adore it.

After Ivan pays the bill with a thick wad of cash that makes me a little dizzy to look at, he leads me out of the restaurant and down onto the street. He hails a cab and drives me home, stroking my hair and holding me close the whole way back to Brighton Beach. Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, and when we arrive at my apartment building he lifts me out and brings me upstairs to bed. I try to wake myself up, certain that he will want to fuck me. After all, it’s his prerogative to use my body however he wants.