Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
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.