Chapter 31

Anton

"Ready to eat some more?"

"I think so," Mishka said uncertainly. It was still early, but we had quickly changed into evening clothes in the suite and were already back in the limo. She looked so stunning in the elegant dress I had picked out, that it was hard to focus. "Another hot dog?"

I started laughing.

"No Mishka, this is going to be a singular experience. I am taking you to visit with one of the most famous chefs in the world. Think you can muster up your appetite?"

"Oh… yes, of course."

"Maybe we will walk there. Work up your… hunger."

"I would like that," she said with a smile. I had noticed how much she liked to walk. And I enjoyed indulging her above all else.

Plus, it was amusing to watch everyone stop and stare at the rare beauty by my side.

We'd already visited another museum after our adventures in Brooklyn. Watching Mishka experience New York for the first time was a marvel. She amazed me. She was so sweet and gracious, always impressed by the art we were viewing. Meanwhile, her own talent was astonishing. Not just her abilities, which were tremendous, but her passion.

Her talent rivaled any of the artists hanging in the museums we visited. If they could hang music in a gallery, she would be right there beside Picasso or Monet.

I could still hear her playing from earlier in the afternoon. It reverberated through my ears, my brain, my heart. I could feel it in my very soul.

Watching her play on tinny security cameras, even the top-of-the-line equipment at my Moscow estate, did not compare in the slightest with seeing her play in the flesh. It was like comparing a gnat to a blue whale. I got chills just thinking about it.

My Mishka was one of a kind. Not just one in a million, or one in a billion, she was a miracle. One of the greatest artists of all time. I was not exaggerating due to my feelings for her.

She was magnificent.

It was not merely my desire for her that colored my opinion of her talent. She was truly brilliant. I think that even if she had not been so exceptionally beautiful, if she were a plain, meek little thing, I would have fallen in love with her after hearing her play.

I quickly communicated the new plan with my staff and they phoned ahead to Massa to let them know we would be a few minutes late. The meal was normally seven hundred and fifty per person, but since I had rented out the entire restaurant for an early pre theater supper, the charge was closer to twenty thousand dollars.

It did not matter. My Mishka was worth it. And we still had time. I doubted the Metropolitan Opera company would wait for us if dinner ran late, but I could try.

The walk across the park was lovely. I had come to appreciate strolling in a way I never had before. True, I had romped through the grounds of our estates with my brothers as children. And we had certainly enjoyed nature while game hunting in the countryside back home, as well as in Scotland, and other parts of the world.

But simply walking for the pleasure of it? For the pleasure of a woman? It was unthinkable in many ways.

And yet, walking through New York over the past few days was the best thing in the world. Particularly with the small, perfectly formed, and powerfully talented hand in mine. I squeezed her hand gently, and was rewarded with a shy smile.

Mishka was delighted by everything. The children who ran past us. The old couple sitting on a park bench. The horse drawn carriages. Even the joggers, bikers, and skaters made her smile. I made a mental note to take her ice skating the first chance we got.

The thought was unbearably romantic, and I simply could not wait.

We came out of the park near Columbus Circle this time, which was my plan. My men moved quickly now, closing ranks. They had given us a wide berth in the park. But here, they had to be closer. We headed to the tall building and took a private elevator to the entrance for Masa, which was by far one of the most exclusive restaurants in the entire world, and a personal favorite of my brothers and mine.

Mishka looked around in wonder. She was wearing a stunning black strapless evening gown, with a white ermine cape jacket. She must have known it was not going to be an ordinary evening. But I knew she was not expecting anything as special as this.

My little bird had not seen luxury like this until she had met me. And I had barely begun to spoil and pamper her. If I had my way, I would be giving her princess treatment for the rest of both of our lives.

Not just princess treatment. Royal princess treatment. Care and luxury beyond what any woman, other than Cleopatra, or the Czarinas have ever known.

I wanted her life to be the stuff of fairytales. She was beyond the realm of reality. I wanted her life to reflect that.

And I wanted to be there to watch it unfold. I wanted to read every page of her story. I wanted to be her hero.

No matter what it took, I vowed. Meanwhile, my little bird was looking around in wonder. The staff was waiting at attention. I heard the soft click of my guards locking the door behind us. For a moment, no one spoke.

"What is this?"

"I thought we might hear a bit more music before we left for California. Though I cannot guarantee they will be as good as you."

"Oh," she said simply, a faint blush lighting up her cheeks. I was dying to know what she was thinking. Would I ever understand the complexities of her mysterious little heart and soul?

"I already know you do not mind sleeping on a plane," I teased gently.

We were offered a drink menu, I simply said ‘whatever Chef Masa recommends'. Then sat back, and watched the beautiful woman across from me take in her surroundings.

She wasn't green, per say. Not after spending so much time in my company. She grew up in Moscow, after all. It was a city of extravagance, for those who had the means. And even if you did not, you certainly walked by the upper and upper upper classes as they dined in restaurants and got in and out of their limos and luxury sports cars.

Certainly, she had been exposed to the best in music. Her life had been modest but she had trained at the Petersburg Conservatory, formerly the Moscow Imperial Conservatory. She had been exposed to wealth and luxury, if only peripherally.

But that was nothing compared to what I could provide for my Mishka. I would thoroughly enjoy blowing her mind. And Masayoshi Takayama was just the man to help me do it. She sipped the first round of drinks appreciatively. It was a tequila-based drink, as far as I could tell, though the flavor profile was completely original, neither sweet or salty, but somewhere delicious in between.

The first course arrived, and with it, the man himself.

Masayoshi Takayama was unassuming and straightforward, even simple, as was his food. But that first impression was not the case. The subtle layers of flavor and a wicked sense of humor danced behind the man's intelligent eyes and in every bite of his food. Even with the exorbitant price tag, the restaurant was not exceptionally fancy. But he was an artist of the highest caliber, of that there was no doubt.

And each time I came, the food was beyond anything I had ever experienced. It was always different. It was always uniquely special.

I had a suspicion that he went out of his way to delight and surprise his repeat customers. That he enjoyed playing with our hearts and our taste buds. I did not know the man well, but we had spoken each time I had visited, and even drank whiskey together on several occasions. I liked to think of him as a friend, if not a close one.

I watched Mishka carefully as each course arrived. It was not a heavy meal, by any stretch of the imagination. It was primarily sushi, with a bit of rice, vegetables, and seaweed. There was a salad and a soup. But it was mostly fish. So fresh, that I imagined it had come out of the sea moments before.

It reminded me of Greece. There was a restaurant I loved that was right off the beach. I had watched fishermen pull up their nets, and carry fish to the chef, who had served it within the half an hour, if not sooner. The quality of the fish was similar, but that food had been fresh and simple. Delicious and hearty, not an epic journey for your senses. Here everything was so balanced, so nuanced, that it did not compare.

I loved food. I loved fine food. Eating was a pleasure. But eating at Masa was like a museum for your mouth. Each bite felt like you were tasting a Picasso, or a Rembrandt, or even a symphony.

"What do you think?" I asked towards the end of the meal. We had eaten mostly in reverent silence. There was an element of worship to the meal, with the quiet classical music playing in the backdrop. The chef had come out to describe each course to us. I was slightly amused to see that he was clearly taken with my dinner companion.

I was even more amused by her response to the humble but brilliant chef.

Mishka was speechless.

She looked at me and shook her head, still at a loss for words. I smiled and glanced at my watch. We barely had time for dessert. I waved over my men, letting them know we would be moving quickly when the meal was over. He brought me a briefcase. I peeled out twenty thousand dollars, the price of the meal, plus a hefty tip, handing it to one of the restaurant's staff.

Mishka looked shocked, even though I had stepped away from the table to avoid upsetting her. I knew she wasn't used to such large sums of money being carried around, particularly to pay for a single meal. I tried to be discrete about it, but I know she saw the exchange.

The final course came. It was small, which was a relief, because it was almost too rich. I was surprised that it was chocolate and not something more exotic, but Chef Masa was known for his sweet tooth. And chocolate was a known aphrodisiac. Perhaps he was looking out for me. I was clearly besotted.

The dessert included a hot tea that was liberally spiked with liquor. It was decadent, delicious, and exquisite. It was the perfect ending to an exceptional meal.

But the night was not yet over. Not even close. It was time. We did not have a moment to linger.

I stood.

"Our sincere thanks," I said with a bow to the Chef. He gave us a warm smile. I could have sworn he was blushing when she thanked him. My Mishka just had that effect on men.

Especially me.

"Shall we? We are in a bit of a time crunch," I said, using an American expression. We had started peppering our Russian with phrases in English. It was our own secret language. I loved sharing that with her. I loved sharing everything with her.

I could not wait for us to bear witness to the unfolding of each other's lives.

"There's more?"

"Oh yes."

I said nothing, just climbed into the limo for the very short ride to Lincoln Center. When I stepped out and took her hand, her eyes were wide. I wondered if I would ever run out of ways to impress her. I hoped not. I prayed not.

If I had to, I would serve her a Fabergé egg with her breakfast every morning. I would serve her gems as large as Easter eggs. I would bring the symphony to her, to serenade her from the garden.

But perhaps, someday, she would love me for who I was, and not what I could give her, or show her. But instead for who I was, and all the ways I was trying to become a better man for her.

Not richer. Not stronger. A more honorable man. A man who knew what was important to him, and would do anything to protect it.

In this case, that was my girl. And the family I was desperate to create with her. The image of her with her belly full of my child, or holding our child as I enfolded her in my arms, that was a lodestar to me. That was, would be, had to be, my own personal heaven.

I suspected, deep down, that all I had to do was change my career. Soften myself to be with her. Become the man I could have been without my father's legacy of brutality.

Undo my upbringing. Become what nature intended, instead of the shocking lack of ‘nurture'. Heal my wounds. I had never even considered that I was wounded before, but now it was so clear to me. Of course I was. I had lacked a mother. I craved the healing energy of a woman. But I did not want to make Mishka into my mother, I wanted to make her into the mother of my children.

To do that, I would have to bear my soul to her. I would have to risk it all. I would have to allow her to love me exactly as I am, if I dared.

The thought was terrifying. Exhilarating. Freeing.

I wanted all of that with her, I realized. If she would have me. If not… I would most likely go in the other direction.

I would likely descend straight to the gates of hell.

"I should have asked if you like Opera. Wagner, in particular."

"Would you have told them to play something else?" she teased me with a twinkle in her glorious eyes. I tilted my head back and laughed, loudly enough that people turned to look. I squeezed her hand, not willing to release her, to stop touching her, even for a moment.

"We have to hurry. Can you do that in those heels? Or should I carry you?"

"I can manage, thank you," she said, giving me a tart look. I laughed again.

"Let's go."

She nodded and we started to walk quickly, nearly jogging. I kept checking to make sure her cute little feet could keep up. We took the stairs rapidly, well aware that the music was about to start. The crowds had already thinned to a trickle, and the lights flickered, a signal that the performance was imminent.

Our seats were on the second floor, a parterre side box, with the boxes on either side taken by my men. I chuckled at the thought of them enjoying the opera, though I suspected that many of them would, even while being hyper vigilant to provide protection. We all checked in and headed quickly up the stairs. We waited for a few minutes while my team made sure the boxes were secure, then we took our seats. Drinks were not allowed, but we could have something at the bar during the intermission.

And if my sweet girl wanted to have a drink in the limo, or drink the whole way to California, that was just fine with me. I wanted to stay up all night talking, drinking, sharing stories. I wanted to fall in love over and over again, like two characters in a movie. Not a monster and an angel. Just a man and a woman.

I could be that for her, I realized. It was already happening. My Mishka was changing me at a rapid pace.

The lights lowered. The crowd stilled. The music started.

In that moment, something miraculous happened. My sweet little Mishka reached out and took my hand.