24. Viviana

It's not a date.

It's just dinner… Dinner on the rooftop of a restaurant I'd feel too underdressed to walk past, let alone eat at.

I freeze as soon as the door to the rooftop opens. Blush and fuchsia pink flowers trail up brick columns and span the gaps between the exposed wooden beams running overhead. Candles flicker in the center of the table and in lanterns scattered around the roof. The space is large enough to fit twenty other tables, at least, but tonight, there is only one.

It's gorgeous.

And definitely not a date.

Mikhail's hand lands firm and warm on my exposed lower back. Stella chose a low-back, champagne-colored satin dress for me to wear. At the time, I thought it was overkill. Now, it's obvious I'd fit right in here… if there was anyone else around to "fit in" with.

Mikhail directs me out of the doorway and to our table.

"Is this for us?" I ask dumbly.

"No, actually," he says, pulling out my chair. "But don't worry—I killed the couple it was for on our way in. Their bodies are in the back alley. They won't be making their reservation, I'm afraid."

I blink at him, stunned for a full three seconds before I realize he's joking.

"Relax. Everything tonight is for us, Viviana." Mikhail gently pushes me back into the table.

He's in a blue suit that does dangerous things to his eyes. They are like melting glaciers. When I look into them, I swear I can see forever.

The thought jolts me back to reality. I lunge for my napkin and accidentally send the silverware inside clattering across the table.

I'm sure Mikhail notices my nerves, but he doesn't say anything. He orders wine and thanks the waitress as she pours our glasses. When Mikhail lifts his glass for a toast, all I hear is Anatoly's voice in my head.

Maybe he'll treat you extra right on your date tonight.

"Why did you bring me here?" I blurt.

Mikhail sighs and lowers his glass. He takes a sip before he answers. "I thought I should get to know the mother of my child."

A breeze blows across the rooftop and a pink flower petal flutters down from above, landing perfectly in the center of my plate. I arch a brow. "We can get to know each other back at the mansion."

Where there are other people. And fewer flowers. And I don't have to imagine what it would be like if this was a date and there was some chance that the night would end with Mikhail's lips on mine and this dress on the floor.

"I didn't want any distractions."

"Then you shouldn't have worn that suit," I mumble.

Mikhail leans closer and I can smell his minty freshness from here. "What was that?"

"I want to get to know you, too," I say quickly. "I have it on good authority that Stella and Anatoly are helping Dante make homemade slime. He definitely would have roped us into that experience if we were at the mansion."

"What is homemade slime?" he asks.

"It is what it sounds like: slime. It's just goo made from glue and food coloring and a bunch of other stuff from around the house."

Mikhail, a man I've seen beat his own brother into a pulp, looks horrified. "What do you do with it?"

"Nothing. Everything." I chuckle. "It's like Silly Putty from when we were kids. Did you ever play with that stuff?"

"I didn't play with anything," he admits. "There wasn't time."

"Here we go. The appetizers haven't even come out yet and I'm already learning shocking things about you." I grab my drink and take a sip. I'm no wine connoisseur, but even I know it's expensive. I plan to drink half a bottle, at least, if only to quiet down the nagging thoughts in my head. "What were you so busy doing that you didn't have time to play when you were a kid?"

"You grew up in the mafia. It's not so different from my world. You know what it's like."

"I grew up the only daughter of a don," I remind him. "I have no idea what it's like to grow up the second son of a pakhan. So, what was it like?"

Mikhail considers it for a second and then meets my eyes. "Bloody."

It doesn't have the same ring of amusement as the joke about killing the couple in the alley did. Probably because it's not a joke.

"Huh," I murmur. "Maybe our experiences weren't so different, after all."

I raise my glass for the toast I missed earlier. Mikhail dips his chin and clinks his glass against mine.

The waitress pops in and out every so often to deliver different courses, but otherwise, we are left alone. Large gas heating lamps burn in a circle around the rooftop, insulating us from the chilly evening. Still, goosebumps bloom up and down my arms when the wind blows.

"Cold?" Mikhail asks.

I start to refuse, but he is already standing up and slipping out of his jacket. He drops it over my shoulders and I almost moan at the residual warmth of his body. The scent of cedar and mint swirls around me. If I stole this jacket and sold it to some perfumer somewhere, I'd make a fortune.

"Thanks." I pull the sleeves more tightly around me. "It's a nice night, but I always run cold. My dad always said I get that from my mom. He said she shook like a scared little chihuahua the entire time he knew her."

Of course, she could have been shaking out of fear. Being married to a man who screamed at her every time another man even looked her direction, like it was her fault, couldn't have been good for her health.

It's probably why her heart stopped when she was only forty-five.

Or maybe he killed her.

I've never worked out which one, but after what my father did to Matteo, I wouldn't put anything past him.

"She died when you were little, didn't she?"

I only smile because I'm so surprised he knows anything at all about my life. "How do you know that?"

"You were engaged to my brother for six months. I got bored at all those godawful parties and fundraisers."

"So you asked around about me?" That shouldn't send a swirl of excitement through me, but it does.

"I overheard other people talking about you," he counters. "It was better than listening to people kiss Trofim's ass, so I tuned in."

"Glad my trauma caught your interest. That's what dead moms are for, after all: party chatter."

"Unless you"re my father," Mikhail retorts, "and then dead moms are only around so you can blame them for all the bad behavior of your sons."

I knew Trofim's mom wasn't in the picture when we were engaged. All of the conversations about our union happened between his father and mine. It was a room full of men hashing out my romantic future without a female voice in sight. But Trofim never talked about her, and I didn't care enough about him to ask.

"What happened to your mom?" I ask softly.

"She married my father."

It's the only answer Mikhail offers and I can tell it's all I'm going to get.

"Well, if we succeed in being civil, it'll be the first halfway decent marriage I've ever seen up close," I admit.

Something I don't understand flickers across Mikhail's face before he schools his features. "Up close, every marriage is miserable."

"You really think so?"

"Best case scenario is ‘til death do us part.' It's pretty fucking bleak," he mutters as he takes a drink.

"For a man who doesn't believe in marriage, you sure rushed into our wedding. Any chance this cynicism is an act?"

I'm teasing him, but deep down, I want to know. Why did he ask me to marry him? Why are we here on this rooftop, surrounded by flowers?

"The cynicism is from experience. The marriage is because of Dante."

Right. Dante.

He's here because I got knocked up during a one-night stand. A one-night stand that happened on the heels of Mikhail breaking up my very unhappy engagement to his brother. An engagement that only happened because my father murdered my previous fiancé right in front of me.

God… my life is a graveyard of bad marriages. Based on the ghosts swirling in Mikhail's eyes, I'm sure his past looks similar.

I sigh. "Is it too depressing to raise our glasses to shitty parents and their even shittier marriages?"

"Probably." Mikhail raises his glass anyway.

"I'd toast to not repeating their mistakes, but I'm not sure anyone would say our marriage is built to last. We've probably already made their mistakes."

"Our marriage is built on mutual benefits and personal responsibility," he says coolly. "I think that's a hell of a lot stronger foundation than love."

I snort. "I know centuries' worth of poets who would disagree with you."

"They can disagree all they want. While they were busy writing sad little poems about lost loves, I was learning from the real world. I know for a fact that when love is taken away from you, nothing can bring it back. It may make a man strong at first, but when it's gone… there's nothing weaker than that."

Mikhail is staring down into his glass. The words feel like an accident. Like they slipped through a crack in his usual armor and weaseled their way through another crack in mine.

I find myself leaning closer to him. "Has love been taken away from you, Mikhail?"

He blinks and instantly, the moment is gone. He shakes his head gruffly. "What about you?"

I don't owe him an explanation. Especially since he definitely isn't going to tell me anything. But I decide to be honest anyway.

"Once." I fold my hands around my empty glass. My fingers are cold. "It was a long time ago. I was young… stupid. It ended badly."

Suddenly, more wine is splashing into my cup.

Mikhail lowers the bottle and raises his glass yet again. "One last toast—to not repeating our own mistakes."

Easier said than done.

By the time our dessert plates are cleared away from the table, I'm full and warm in Mikhail's jacket. He offers me his hand to escort me down the stairs, but I'm not ready to leave.

I turn to the railing, taking in the glowing city streets below. The chatter and honking feels distant from this high up. I can romanticize it in a way I can't when a taxi is blaring its horn at me as I cross the street, Dante's hand locked in mine like a vice.

This top-of-the-world view makes everything down below look small… insignificant.

"Can we stay for a few more minutes?" I ask suddenly.

His face is unreadable as he lets the stairwell door close and follows me to the railing. "I thought you'd be ready to get back to Dante."

"He's definitely asleep by now. Besides, this is the first time I've been out in five years."

"You haven't been out since Dante was born?"

"Sad but true." I chuckle. "I hired a babysitter when I had to work late or when there was a work function in the evenings, but those only came up once or twice a year."

"What about dates?"

"Hazy, elusive things. If I focus really hard, I can almost remember what it felt like to have a social life. But it's been a long time. Actually, this is—" I grip the railing.

"This is what?" Mikhail's elbow brushes against my arm. Several layers of clothing separate us, but I swear I feel his heat radiate through my bones.

"This is the closest thing I've had to a date in as long as I can remember." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wince. "That sounded even more pathetic out loud than it did in my head. Which is saying something, because it sounded really pathetic in my head."

To my surprise, Mikhail laughs, and the sound sends warmth pooling low in my belly. The same way it did last night before our almost-kiss in the kitchen. Mikhail is stingy with his smiles and it only makes me want to gather them up and hoard them.

"It's not like you're hideous," Mikhail says. "Men must have asked you out."

"Wow. ‘Not hideous.' If I was still on the market, that would be my profile on every dating app. What a rave review," I bite out sarcastically.

His hand whispers over my lower back again, drawing closer than we've been all night. "You know I like what I see. I've never denied that."

The night he bent me over the side of the bed and spanked me flashes in my mind. I saw his erection and accused him of liking it.

Am I supposed to deny it?

My face flames and words tumble out just to distract myself. "Actually, the morning I went to work and found you there instead of my boss, my neighbor had asked me out for dinner." I frown. "He's probably wondering what happened to us."

"Did you accept his offer?" Mikhail slides his hand possessively to my hip and I've never been more aware of my body.

"Yes, but…"

But I haven't thought about him even once since I walked away from him.

Not the way I've thought about you.

"But what?" Mikhail presses.

I flail for something to say. "But Tommy was a Capricorn. It probably wouldn't have worked out."

"Please don't tell me you put your faith in the stars."

I shrug. "The stars told me Trofim and I wouldn't be a good match. They were definitely right about that."

"The stars didn't need to tell you that," Mikhail snorts. "I was born at the end of September. What does that tell you about me?"

"You're a Libra. Libras are all about—" I inhale sharply. Mikhail's hand feels like a brand on my hip. "Balance," I choke out. "Libras are represented by the scales."

Mikhail turns to me, eyebrow arched. "Why does me being a Libra make you look like you want to jump over the ledge? I don't know a thing about astrology. Are Libras serial killers or something?"

In the case of this particular Libra: probably.

But bizarrely, that isn't what has my heart racing.

I paste on a smile. "It's stupid, but my horoscope this morning… It said I'm on the brink of finding new balance in my life."

Mikhail turns to me. I'm not sure how it happened, but instead of looking down at the view, I'm looking up at him. His skin is gold in the candlelight. The breeze brushes his dark hair away from his face.

"Is that all it said?" His voice is a tempting rumble that I feel in my toes. I'm surprised it doesn't shake the building. It should register on some Richter scale somewhere.

I lick my lips. "No."

His hand tightens around my lower back, pulling me closer. "What else did it say, Viviana?"

"It said I'm on the brink of finding new balance in my life… and I should embrace it."

Mikhail is good for Dante. He comes with some threats and baggage, but he wants to protect us from that.

Maybe I should stop fighting this pull I feel towards him. The pull I've felt since I first saw him leaning against the wall at my engagement party. The one that hasn't lessened for even a second since he threw me back on the bed in that bridal suite.

Mikhail leans closer. I tip my head back, part my lips.

I want him.

The thought rings through me like a gong and he must be able to hear it.

Because all at once, Mikhail pulls away and leaves me leaning on the cold metal railing.

"Sounds like your horoscope knows about your breakdown in the kitchen last night. You definitely ‘embraced' me then." He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks to the stairwell door. He wrenches it open and points for me to follow.

I silently follow him down the stairs and through the restaurant. Pyotr is standing by the curb downstairs, but when he helps me into the backseat, Mikhail doesn't follow.

"Take her home," Mikhail orders. "I have work to do."

Without another look at me, Mikhail turns and leaves.

I spend the ride home staring out the window, playing and replaying the conversation on the roof. I can still feel where Mikhail's hand singed my lower back.

What happened? What did I do wrong?

As if he can hear my thoughts, Pyotr catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "Don't judge him too harshly."

"Who?" I snap.

Pyotr gives me a sympathetic smile. "Mr. Novikov has been through a lot. When he is responsible for someone, he takes it seriously. He doesn't allow anything to get in the way of him doing what needs to be done—not even himself. If he's keeping you at arm's length, there's a good reason."

Like he's uninterested. He doesn't want me. This marriage is a sham through and through.

If I'm transparent enough that Pyotr can see my disappointment, I'm sure Mikhail could, too.

Pyotr is trying to make me feel better, but as I mumble my thanks and walk into the mansion I now call home, I've never felt more alone.