3. Lucia

CHAPTER 3

Lucia

M y grip tightens around the cup of water placed in front of me. I squeeze and squeeze, imagining it's the neck of the man that was meant to meet me tonight.

I understand that sometimes people can be rude, and divas generally don't give a fuck about other people's time. But I thought that at least he'd have some degree of professionalism. But no, that's too much to ask for. I try and fail to get the anger bubbling inside of me to simmer.

Which is around the time an unwanted face approaches my table. Technically, "unwanted face" might be a bit of a stretch. There's no way this man's face has ever been considered unwanted before.

"May I sit?" he asks, his smooth, deep voice the picture of politeness.

Politeness that would have served him well earlier, when he was berating a poor waiter. I look up at him, ensuring every bit of annoyance I'm currently feeling shows in my expression.

"No," I reply, short and sweet.

He ignores that, of course, sliding into the chair opposite mine without an invitation. My eyes narrow into a glare.

"I see we're foregoing all form of decorum tonight," I mutter under my breath.

"The only person that seems to be doing that is your date," he retorts. "Who is it? I'm interested to know the bastard who stood up a beautiful woman such as yourself."

I pause at that, momentarily thrown off. I wasn't expecting the compliment. I take the time to observe him for a couple of moments. I'm not blind. I have eyes, eyes that can very clearly see that the man currently sitting in front of me might be one of the most good-looking men I've ever met in my life.

And I don't give that compliment out lightly. Especially considering I work in the fashion industry with beautiful men who work as models. Men who spend their lives trying to hone the physique this man seems to have achieved effortlessly.

His piercing brown eyes are the kind that could take any woman's breath away. If I had to guess his age, I'd say late thirties. His tousled black hair adds to his enigmatic aura, and every movement he makes exudes strength and confidence, even as he's sitting down. It's pretty clear that he's a man used to being in control. The air around him crackles with an intensity that draws me in, a silent challenge in his gaze.

He seems dangerous, if the tattoos peeking out from under the sleeve of his navy suit are anything to go by. Unfortunately, I come to the realization that he is exactly my type. Which is so not what I need right now. Older men who look like they could break you with barely any effort are my weakness.

Thankfully, he's a jerk so it should be easy to resist him.

"Can you please leave? Seriously, I'm not in the mood for company," I say.

He arches an eyebrow. "So you came to this restaurant to eat alone?"

"I could ask you the same question," I toss back.

He shakes his head. "Actually, my date stood me up."

"Really? She wasn't interested in the pleasure of your company?" I ask sarcastically.

"No. She had a family emergency. She apologized she couldn't join me tonight," he replies easily.

"How thoughtful of her," I mutter. If only that jerk could have offered me the same courtesy.

"Your turn," he says on a short nod. "Who stood you up?"

"A guy named after a villain in a kids' movie," I reply dryly, unsure why I'm even answering at all.

His eyebrows go up, "What kid's movie?" he asks going along with it.

" Frozen ," I clarify.

He ponders that for a couple of seconds. "I must admit I haven't seen it."

For some reason, that makes me laugh.

"I didn't think you would have," I state with a smile. "Anyway, my date's name is Hans. And it's not even an actual date; I was meeting up with him to discuss work. But he stood me up without a word."

At that moment, my phone lights up with a text from Hans's assistant. I read it with a clenched jaw.

"And there's the word. Apparently he had a prior engagement. Moron," I say on an eye roll.

Mr. Handsome's lips twitch like he's about to smile, but then his features settle into that unassuming calmness.

"Now that I've ascertained you're free, why don't you join me for dinner instead?" he suggests.

"No thanks. I'd rather just go home. I hate Chinese food anyway."

"I could request that the chef prepare a meal you would prefer," he returns without missing a beat.

I groan softly. "I really should go home."

Call me shallow, but it's really hard to say no to a man who looks like a fantasy of mine come to life. Now that I think about it, he seems familiar in a way. I'm pretty sure I've never met him before, I'd remember but it feels like I have somehow.

"Come on, krasavitsa ," he says, a mild accent peeking out in his voice. I can't place it, however, and I especially have no idea what that last word means. "Take a chance. I'll make the evening worth your while."

"Where are you from?" I ask.

"How about we start over? What's your name?"

And just like that, I've unwittingly found myself on a date. But there's no harm in enjoying the rest of my day.

"Lucia Kent," I answer and for the briefest of moments, I spot a flicker of recognition in his gaze. But it disappears just as fast, leaving me wondering if I saw anything at all.

"Lucia," he repeats with a small smile. "I'm Ivan Volkov."

"I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, Ivan, but I did meet you while you were being an asshole."

"So is that your thing? Helping people you feel are in unfair situations."

"He apologized. You could have let it go."

"Letting things go is not in my nature," he says thoughtfully.

"So what? Being a jerk to people in lower positions than you is?"

Usually I wouldn't be pushing it so much, but his actions hit a little close to home. They kind of remind me of Jonathan earlier today, and Hans as well. Men who don't give a fuck about the way their actions affect those around them.

"What would you like me to do in order for us to move past this?" he asks, not looking the least bit unfazed.

I get the feeling nothing fazes him.

"You could apologize to the waiter," I suggest.

His lips tilt up in a smirk. "That's not going to happen."

"Because you're better than him?"

"I am better than him, but that's not the point," he replies confidently. "He made a mistake and spilled my drink all over the floor, and I berated him in return. I'd say that's a fair trade-off."

That's truly warped logic. But I doubt I'd be able to convince him to see my side of things.

"Alright, fine. Moving on, then. Where are you from? I'm guessing you're not American."

He shakes his head. "I'm Russian. Born and raised in Moscow until I moved to the US as a teenager."

"Alone?" I question.

"With my little brother," he answers vaguely.

He doesn't seem to want to talk more on the subject, and I don't push.

"How old are you?"

"A lot older than you," he says on a smirk. "Why? Is that a problem?"

"Not really," I reply easily. "But I'd still like to know."

"I'm forty-four years old."

My eyes widen slightly. I would not have guessed he was that old. He certainly doesn't look forty-four.

"Nice genes," I say under my breath, but of course he still hears me.

"Thank you. I would ask for your age, but in all my years of living, women have never reacted kindly to that question."

"Maybe you've been hanging out with the wrong women," I point out. "I'm twenty-four. It's not a big deal."

He's about to say something else but the waiter interrupts. A different waiter this time, who asks what we'd like to eat for the main course. I ask for some seafood pasta because that's never failed me before. He seems to know a lot about Chinese food and I watch fascinated as he requests for chow mein, which is basically stir-fried noodles with tofu. He also asks for some expensive wine, which is brought out a couple of seconds later.

"I'm not sure I know a lot of twenty-four year olds who would have stood in front of me and spoken to me the way you did, Lucia. It's fascinating. Have you always been so bold?" he asks.

I sigh softly. "Unfortunately, yes. I have a hard time backing down. My sister likes to call me a daredevil. I got into a lot of trouble when I was younger due to my unflinching personality."

"I'm sure you still get into a lot of trouble now," he points out.

That makes me smile. "Maybe."

He asks me what I do for work and I'm in the middle of explaining what it is exactly a marketing executive does at a fashion magazine when our food is brought out. We eat in silence and I'm surprised by how comfortable it is. We're able to settle into this easy companionship like we've known each other for years instead of an hour.

When we're done eaten, our plates are cleared from the table.

"Dessert? I'm sure you'd enjoy the chocolate mousse," he states.

I shake my head. "I'm not a fan of most desserts. I don't have a sweet tooth."

"So you don't like Chinese food, neither do you have a sweet tooth. Picky eater?" he asks perceptively.

I nod in agreement. "My food palate is incredibly narrow."

"How about drinks?"

"I'm sorry?" I ask, confused.

"Would you like to get drinks with me? I'm staying at a hotel not too far from here. There's a bar on the first floor."

My eyes meet his dark brown gaze and a thrill goes through me. I could so easily end things here. Go home and look back fondly on this night as the time I met a really hot Russian man who helped save this horrendous day. But he's also very aware I'm not good at saying no to a challenge or backing down. One of my philosophies in life is going for it, in spite of any likely regrets at the end.

I'll regret it even more if I don't do something I want to do.

"Okay," I say on a short nod after several moments of thinking it over.

He doesn't look surprised or pleased that I agreed. He doesn't look much of anything. The man keeps his emotions closely guarded to his chest. I'm not sure he even has them, if I'm being honest. That blank look in his eyes should be turning me off, but it's doing the exact opposite.

"One minute," he says, holding up a finger and pulling out his phone simultaneously.

He types something out on it and exactly a minute later, he's getting to his feet. He rounds the table over to my side and stretches his hand out for me to take, like a perfect gentleman. I hesitate for only a second before slipping my hand into his.

Ivan leads me out of the restaurant. We only stop to pick up our coats and for him to speak to the manager.

"The waiter from before," he starts once we're standing in front of the woman who welcomed us, "don't fire him."

The order leaves his lips easily enough. A man used to giving them and having them followed. The manager's eyes shift nervously but she nods quickly.

"Of course, sir. We won't."

I'm a little happy he took the time to do that one humane thing.

"Maybe you're not such an asshole after all," I say as he leads me toward the valet parking.

A car is already waiting there and a hulk of a man stands outside of it, holding the door open. He's dressed in all black and is waiting as still as a stone for Ivan and me to approach.

"Careful, krasavitsa . The one thing you should never do is assume you know anything about me," he murmurs in an even tone.

Shivers break across my skin at the dangerous edge to his voice. Turn around, Lucia. Run.

And yet I do neither of those things. I let him lead me into the car. He slides inside after me and the hulk of the man gets in the front without a single word to me. He doesn't even look me in the eye. But it's made immediately clear that he's a bodyguard.

I swallow softly. "Why do you need bodyguards?"

Ivan smirks. "A little late to back out on me, Lucia."

"What do you do for work?"

I must have gone crazy and it must have skipped my mind that although I play at living a normal life, I'm still a Maranzano. And it suddenly hits me that Ivan reminds me too much of a world I used to belong to.

Who are you? I want to ask. But I don't think I'll be getting an honest answer.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises. "We're just going for a drink, Lucia. Relax."

His cool tone shouldn't have that much of an effect on me, but it does and I find myself leaning back in my seat. I already got myself into this situation, no use acting like a chicken about it now. The drive to the hotel is pretty short, barely ten minutes. Once I've confirmed exactly which hotel it is, I surreptitiously send my sister a text with the location attached.

Me: In case I end up getting murdered, you'll know where to find me.

She replies almost immediately.

Rory: What the fuck, Lucia?

Me: Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'm either going to have an incredibly fun time tonight. Or not. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you.

Rory: Just stay safe.

Her response is a testament to how well she knows me. I've probably taken so many years off her life. Now she's just used to it.

Hulk opens the door and Ivan steps out of the car, with me following him. This time, I manage a murmured thanks to the guard, whose expression doesn't so much as ruffle.

I guess his boss taught him well.

Ivan is staying at is one of the most expensive spots in the city—an upscale boutique hotel that caters only to the elites.

"You've been awfully silent, krasavitsa ," Ivan says as we step through the revolving double doors.

That's because my brain has been working on overdrive trying to figure him out.

"Who is the hulk?" I ask for lack of anything better to say, referring to the guard who keeps his distance while watching us like a hawk with those clear brown eyes of his.

Ivan is momentarily confused.

"I mean your bodyguard," I clarify.

His eyes lighten with recognition. "That's Ruslan. My head bodyguard."

"Head? Which means you have several bodyguards?" I ask with raised eyebrows.

"Yes. I'm a very important man, Lucia," he says easily. "Come on, the bar's right through here."

We walk across the lobby to a door that leads into a quaint bar that's nearly empty. Ivan heads straight for the bar and takes a seat on one of the stools. I take the one beside him. The bartender immediately appears in front of us and asks what we'd like to drink.

I already had a glass of wine at the restaurant, but that doesn't stop me from ordering a cosmopolitan. I have really high tolerance and I'm pretty good at handling my alcohol. Ivan orders a glass of whiskey.

"We should have a toast," I state and he raises his glass as I speak. "Cheers to meeting new people. And epic nights."

He smiles before clinking our glasses to that. "Cheers, krasavitsa ."