the dark and did it anyway.”
“Sometimes, a man has to make his own way, protect the ones he cares for.”
My heart stutters at the thought of me being in that number. “And now I know where the other Dmitry gets it from. That man should really open up a fortune cookie story.”
“I can see why my grandson likes you so much.”
I’d rather have his love. The thought comes out of nowhere, shocking me to my very core before filling me with sadness. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for helping me practice my English,” he says as we walk along a wide corridor. Pictures of relatives going back to medieval times hanging on the walls. Their frames are made of heavy wood painted with real gold.
Or at least I think that’s what Dmitri said. Sometimes, his accent gets as thick as mine when he gets excited.
“I’m not sure you want to learn American southern English,” I point out.
“Did you know that the Marble Palace in the city is not the true Marble Palace?”
“Not at all.” I know when a man wants to impress a woman and this is how Dmitri does his impressing. Actually, I think it’s kind of cute… if I don’t dwell on the fact that he’s the head of a crime organization.
He smiles down at me, obviously as pleased as the cat that caught the canary at my answer. “My grandson is a lucky man to have you.”
“So lucky that he had to send me to you.” I want to smack myself for saying that. It’s like I’m on repeat. “Not that I don’t appreciate your hospitality because I do. I mean, guests are like fish, after three days, they both stink.”
“Nonsense,” he says, his formerly thick accent becoming less pronounced. “While you are here, you are family, not stink-filled fish.”
I can’t contain my laugh. “I appreciate you saying so.”
We continue on our walk, Dmitri, pointing out paintings that catch his eye and explaining the history of them. The very bloody history of them.
“Impaled so many of his enemies in one day that they called him Vlad the Impaler.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re related to Dracula?”
“ Nyet. He is related to us.” The corner of his mouth quirks again, reminding me of Benjamin so much that my heart flips. “My dear, Ben wouldn’t have had my favorite nephew bring you to me if he thought you didn’t need the protection our family can provide.”
“But who’s protecting him?” I ask, giving voice to one of my biggest fears.
“ Koyla , that is, Roman is watching over him.”
“His brother?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, but he has no idea. Benji would rather keep him out of things, but my grandsons are not men to sit idly by.”
“That’s true.” We walk a bit further. “Why do you call him Benji? Obviously it’s way better than Venyamin because then I’d have to call him Venny and that’s an Italian mobster name. They’re not a rival gang, are they?”
“We are not interested in the olive oil business.” His eyes twinkle at me. “In Russia, we shorten names as a sign of affection.”
“What about my name?”
“Ah,” he says with a smile. “That is a tough one. What does my grandson call you?”
“ Mllaya Moyna . Is that short for Morgan, because it sounds longer to me?”
He laughs. “It is Russian for my sweet .”
My face heats. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t remember him ever calling another woman by that endearment.” His laughter dies down. “I apologize.”
“For what?”
“For bringing up past loves.”
“I don’t expect him to be a blank slate. That’s ridiculous.”
He nods, then his gaze locks ahead of us. “Ah, Benji. You are here just in time to take this lovely woman for a stroll in the garden. My health isn’t what it used to be and I need to rest.”
Slowly, I turn around, my heart slamming against my chest.
Ben stands there at the end of the hall, his hands tucked in his pockets, looking impeccably disheveled in his suit. He has shadows under his eyes and dark scruff
“Sometimes, a man has to make his own way, protect the ones he cares for.”
My heart stutters at the thought of me being in that number. “And now I know where the other Dmitry gets it from. That man should really open up a fortune cookie story.”
“I can see why my grandson likes you so much.”
I’d rather have his love. The thought comes out of nowhere, shocking me to my very core before filling me with sadness. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for helping me practice my English,” he says as we walk along a wide corridor. Pictures of relatives going back to medieval times hanging on the walls. Their frames are made of heavy wood painted with real gold.
Or at least I think that’s what Dmitri said. Sometimes, his accent gets as thick as mine when he gets excited.
“I’m not sure you want to learn American southern English,” I point out.
“Did you know that the Marble Palace in the city is not the true Marble Palace?”
“Not at all.” I know when a man wants to impress a woman and this is how Dmitri does his impressing. Actually, I think it’s kind of cute… if I don’t dwell on the fact that he’s the head of a crime organization.
He smiles down at me, obviously as pleased as the cat that caught the canary at my answer. “My grandson is a lucky man to have you.”
“So lucky that he had to send me to you.” I want to smack myself for saying that. It’s like I’m on repeat. “Not that I don’t appreciate your hospitality because I do. I mean, guests are like fish, after three days, they both stink.”
“Nonsense,” he says, his formerly thick accent becoming less pronounced. “While you are here, you are family, not stink-filled fish.”
I can’t contain my laugh. “I appreciate you saying so.”
We continue on our walk, Dmitri, pointing out paintings that catch his eye and explaining the history of them. The very bloody history of them.
“Impaled so many of his enemies in one day that they called him Vlad the Impaler.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re related to Dracula?”
“ Nyet. He is related to us.” The corner of his mouth quirks again, reminding me of Benjamin so much that my heart flips. “My dear, Ben wouldn’t have had my favorite nephew bring you to me if he thought you didn’t need the protection our family can provide.”
“But who’s protecting him?” I ask, giving voice to one of my biggest fears.
“ Koyla , that is, Roman is watching over him.”
“His brother?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, but he has no idea. Benji would rather keep him out of things, but my grandsons are not men to sit idly by.”
“That’s true.” We walk a bit further. “Why do you call him Benji? Obviously it’s way better than Venyamin because then I’d have to call him Venny and that’s an Italian mobster name. They’re not a rival gang, are they?”
“We are not interested in the olive oil business.” His eyes twinkle at me. “In Russia, we shorten names as a sign of affection.”
“What about my name?”
“Ah,” he says with a smile. “That is a tough one. What does my grandson call you?”
“ Mllaya Moyna . Is that short for Morgan, because it sounds longer to me?”
He laughs. “It is Russian for my sweet .”
My face heats. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t remember him ever calling another woman by that endearment.” His laughter dies down. “I apologize.”
“For what?”
“For bringing up past loves.”
“I don’t expect him to be a blank slate. That’s ridiculous.”
He nods, then his gaze locks ahead of us. “Ah, Benji. You are here just in time to take this lovely woman for a stroll in the garden. My health isn’t what it used to be and I need to rest.”
Slowly, I turn around, my heart slamming against my chest.
Ben stands there at the end of the hall, his hands tucked in his pockets, looking impeccably disheveled in his suit. He has shadows under his eyes and dark scruff
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