Chapter 19

Yaroslav

T oday is the last day of the two-week arrangement, if she wishes, Kimberly will leave tomorrow. I’m not ready to let that happen. The time has gone by in a flash, and I feel as though I still am no closer to unraveling the mystery that is Kimberly Walsh.

After I saw her bruised and marked body, evidence of my loss of control, I avoided her for a couple of days, ashamed of myself and afraid that I might hurt her again. But I couldn’t resist her pull, I just wanted to be in her presence. I thought I’d just talk to her, and get to know her better, but inevitably we fell into bed again. We’ve not done much talking since. Which is why I’ve resolved to take our out this evening. We can’t get into too much trouble in a restaurant, and I want to be on neutral territory when I ask her to stay longer. Here, she may feel she has no choice but to agree.

I’ve decided to take her to a small, romantic Italian restaurant that not many people know about. It’s tucked away down a side alley and is a popular dinner destination for many organized crime bosses thanks to its discreetness and history of being Mafia-owned back in the day. Inside, it’s romantically lit with comfortable secluded oak booths and red and white checkered tablecloths.

The owner of the restaurant, Luigi—I’m pretty sure the name and the Italian accent are for effect since I know full well, he was born and raised here as were his parents—greets us as we enter. “Mr. Volkov! Such a pleasure to have you dining with us again this evening, and with such a beautiful woman! Ciao Bella ,” he says, shaking my hand and doing a little bow to Kim. He knows better than to try to touch her, I’d break his arm. “Would you like to sit at your usual table?” he asks.

“Please,” I reply with a nod, placing my hand on the small of Kim’s back and guiding her toward the table.

Kim eases into the booth, struggling a little under the tight fabric of her bodycon skirt. She’s opted for a pale gray knee-length dress that hugs her curves in a way that has me struggling to think of anything other than her body. The color is wholly impractical for an Italian meal, most of which involves red sauces of some kind, but I’m not complaining. She looks incredible, especially with her face illuminated by the flickering candle in the middle of the table. She looks around, surveying the room.

“I didn’t think restaurants like this really existed, how did you find it?” she asks, meeting my focused gaze.

I shrug, answering non-committedly, “Oh a friend of a friend told me about it, it’s one of those hidden gems that those in the know try to keep a secret. Though, what do you mean, places like this?” I ask, wondering what she meant.

She gestures vaguely around the room, “You know, all this. It’s like the whole restaurant is from the set of a Hollywood movie about Italian gangsters.”

A waitress comes over with the menu and a bottle of red wine, one that I know is the most expensive on the menu as I usually order it. She bats her eyes at me, “For you, sir. On the house.”

I nod but don’t reply, allowing her to fill our glasses. She leans over to me, a little closer than necessary, grazing her chest against my shoulder as she does so. I enjoy the look of annoyance that flickers across Kim’s face.

“Can I get you anything else? Anything at all?” the waitress simpers.

“No. Thank you, we’re good for now,” Kim answers, reaching over to stroke my hand on the table and looking at the waitress pointedly.

Luckily, she gets the hint and leaves. I let out a chuckle, enjoying Kim’s possessiveness. She can be a little firecracker when she wants to.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“You, you’re cute when you’re jealous,” I reply with a smirk.

“I am not jealous,” she says rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her wine. “Mmm, oh my god, this wine is amazing, it must cost a fortune!” she exclaims, her eyes widening.

“It does,” I agree, taking a sip.

“And they just gave it to you? For free?” she says incredulously.

I shrug, at that moment, Luigi appears with a tray, laden with fresh bread, olives, and meat. “Beef carpaccio, I made it especially for you this morning. On the house, of course,” he declares, laying it down on the table with a flourish.

“Thank you, Luigi, you are most generous,” I reply.

He beams, bowing down and walking away backward.

Kim lets out a snort of laughter. “I was just saying that this place reminds me of an Italian Mafia restaurant from a movie and here we are with the owner treating you like the Don!”

She doesn’t realize just how close to the truth she is.

I chuckle and quickly open my menu to distract away from the conversation. I’d rather any comparisons of Mafia bosses to me didn’t take root in Kim’s mind. Kim does the same, perusing her menu. We flick through them in silence, occasionally stopping to nibble on the appetizers or sip our wine.

“Oh, it all sounds so good. I can’t decide,” Kim moans, “What do you recommend?”

“It’s all good,” I reply honestly.

Kim rolls her eyes at me, “Okay, then smart guy, what are you ordering?”

I smile at her indulgently. “I am going to have the lasagna.”

Kim giggles, “You are?”

“Yes, is that funny?” I reply, frowning in confusion.

She laughs again, “I mean, kinda. I was expecting you to order something… I don’t know fancier? Or maybe something like a steak? Lasagna seems too… basic.”

I look at her, my expression faux serious, “Lasagna is great, it even comes highly recommended by Garfield,” I say, deadpan.

She just so happens to be taking a sip of water as I said this, and she laughs so hard she spits some out. “Oh my god, Yaroslav!” she cackles, enjoying my uncharacteristic brevity.

“But seriously, lasagna may be a simple classic, but it’s hard to do it right. Here just so happens to make the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted,” I explain. “I do enjoy a steak, of course, and most of their other dishes. But the lasagna is my go-to here.”

She smiles sweetly at me, her eyes twinkling, she thinks somehow she’s breaking through my walls this evening. “Then that’s what I’ll have too,” she declares.

“Are you sure? Perhaps your dress is better suited for an Alfredo or carbonara,” I quip.

She looks confused for a moment, glancing down at her dress before she realizes what I mean. She laughs again, leaning forward to lightly tap me on the shoulder, “Are you suggesting I’m a messy eater?”

“Not at all. I am merely pointing out it’s a brave color choice for eating Italian food. Not that I mind, you look divine.”

She smiles shyly at me and the waitress returns to take our orders. We continue to make playful small talk while we wait for our food. In due course, our food arrives, and we dig in.

“Mmm,” Kim moans, “Oh my god, you weren’t kidding, this is incredible!”

I chuckle, watching her enjoyment as she closes her eyes and savors her mouthful. “Keep eating like that and I’ll start to feel jealous of a lasagna.”

She chuckles and bats her eyelashes at me, jokingly eating her lasagna seductively. I smile at her, and we continue to enjoy our meal in companionable silence.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I met David the other day,” she says casually.

Immediately I’m wary, David is a loose cannon, god knows what he said to her. Is that why she’s been making Mafia jokes? Did he say too much?

“Where?” I ask, frowning as I think through all of the scenarios that could have happened.

“Sorry, I know you said to keep away. I went to the kitchen for breakfast, I didn’t know he was in there until it was too late and then he insisted I join him,” she says apologetically, looking worried.

“Why are you only telling me this now?” I ask, my voice clipped.

“Sorry, I didn’t think it was a big deal,” she says with a small shrug, “He was fine, we chatted briefly and that was it.”

“So he didn’t say or act… strangely?” I ask, unsure how to ask if he revealed too much without giving my concerns away.

“Well, no. He’s certainly a unique character, very excitable, but nothing alarming. I like him,” she says with a smile. “He told me a lot of strange stories that I think are most likely fiction, but they were entertaining.”

“Like what?” I ask, concerned.

“Well, he said that he’d been kidnapped lots of times, which is why he’s not a pro tennis player, and he told the family legend about how you’re all wolves or something,” she says with a smile, thankfully, it seems she didn’t believe a word of it.

In fact, most of what David says is true, he just tells it in such a way that it sounds like fantasy. He really was a promising tennis player and set to go pro before he was kidnapped by our enemies at fifteen. We got him back in one piece, but his arms were broken and his career over. While in the hospital he was diagnosed with mental health issues, and he was never the same carefree kid again.

I sigh, deciding to partially confide in Kim so she doesn’t think more closely about his claims. “David has bipolar affective disorder and occasional bouts of psychosis, he doesn’t see the world in the same way as we do. Our surname comes from the Russian word for wolf and the tale of our ancestor is somewhat of a family myth. He was a talented tennis player before breaking both his arms in an accident, but that’s about the only truth in his stories,” I explain, deliberately avoiding discussing the kidnapping aspect.

She nods sympathetically, reaching out to gently stroke my hand. I don’t move away, which is unusual to me, and I’m perplexed to find the gesture comforting.

“That must be so difficult for all of you,” she says softly, her eyes understanding. With her grandmother’s problems, Kim can probably understand better than most what dealing with mental breakdowns can be like.

I nod, clearing my throat, not wanting to discuss my feelings about David’s health. Trying to find a medication that helps to stabilize his condition, but not to remove any personality is taking some time. “So, he wasn’t rude or aggressive toward you?” I ask, surprised.

“No, not at all, I think he liked me,” she admits with a smile.

I’m pleased to hear this, even if it was unexpected, I can see why David would like Kim. She’s got such a wholesome, kind energy, she was probably calming to him. David can be quite aggressive toward strangers, or at least pretend to be. He put the fear of god into one of our housekeepers. We have to pay her extra just to keep her quiet after she saw and heard too much about the family business thanks to David. I don’t like that Kim seems to have developed a bond with her either. She’s dangerously close to finding out the truth. I should quit while I’m ahead, let tonight be her last night, bid her farewell, and try to forget Kimberly Walsh. It would be safer for me, for her especially.

And yet I find myself saying, “Stay.”

Her brow furrows in confusion, “Sorry?”

“Stay with me a bit longer, another two weeks… more if you like.”

She bites her lip, looking pained. My chest tightens and I panic that she’s going to refuse, I contemplate giving her no option, kidnapping her.

“You know I have a life to get back to…” she says softly, but I can see she wants to say yes.

“Just one more week then,” I insist.

She considers it and I feel as though my heart will hammer out of my chest in anticipation. She nods and I feel like I could explode with joy.

“Okay, one more week.”