Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I’m just undoing my seat belt when he unexpectedly opens my door and holds out his hand.
I’m…surprised. He’s a gentleman.
Placing my hand in his, I let him help me out. He locks the doors, drops his keys into the pocket of his jeans, and with a hand at my back, he guides me around the corner to a tiny place that I would probably not look twice at. But when he opens the door and I smell the delicious smells of Italian, my stomach growls. I’m just glad it’s noisy and hope he doesn’t hear it.
“Only Italians. And us,” he says.
He nods to someone, an older man who smiles widely and gestures to the only empty table in the place. I walk ahead of him, weaving through the closely situated round tables, and take a seat in the one the older man pulls out for me, liking the casual place, the red and white checkered tablecloth and rickety table and chairs. A candle burns in the heavily waxed-over Chianti bottle on the table and the kitchen opens onto the restaurant so I can see the cook.
“It’s old-fashioned, but the food is delicious. I hope you like it.”
“It’s great and smells wonderful. We’re near Elfreth’s Alley, right?”
“Yep. You like it there?”
“Yeah. I like walking around there when I have the time.”
The older man who’d smiled to Lev comes over, and they shake hands. He gives us two menus. Lev orders a bottle of wine, then turns to me. “Red okay? I know you’re underage, but…” he trails off purposely, and I know he’s taking a dig at me.
“Red’s great,” I say as the man leaves. “And can I have the ID back that you took from me last night?”
“No, you cannot,” he says, reaching to take my menu.
“I haven’t even looked at it yet,” I say.
“Do you read Italian?”
I glance down and see the laminated but still worn-out menu is in Italian. “Oh.”
“You like gnocchi?” he asks.
“I love it.”
The man returns with the wine, opens the bottle, and pours two glasses. Lev orders for us and picks up his glass. He waits for me to do the same.
“To seeing you again in one piece and able to talk and walk on your own,” he says.
My smile vanishes, and I put my glass down. “Are you just going to lecture me about last night? Because if you are, then…” I trail off, because then what? I’ll take a taxi home? I don’t want to leave.
He reaches over to put his hand over mine. “Relax. I’m not going to lecture you, but I am going to tell you that it was a pretty stupid thing to do buying that shit off someone you don’t know.”
My shoulders slump, and I pull my hand out from under his.
His smile is gone, and although he doesn’t look angry, his eyes are harder, like they got a few times last night.
“Not to mention letting me take you upstairs when you were in that state. Another man may have taken advantage. They might have hurt you, Katerina.”
“All right, I’m done.” I move to stand, but he closes his hand over my knee. I look down. It’s so big it covers the whole of it, wrapping almost entirely around it.
“Stay,” he says, the single syllable a quietly spoken command.
Something stirs in my belly, but I don’t let myself think about that. Instead, I glare because I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.
“You need to be careful, especially at a place like Delirium. Don’t come back there, got it?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t now that I know I’m not welcome.”
He pulls his hand back and leans toward me. “It’s not that you’re not welcome. It’s just not…safe. You don’t belong there—”
“I don’t belong there?” I should feel angry. I wish I felt angry, but I just feel hurt. My shoulders cave, and I hug my arms around my middle, sliding the one underneath the sleeve of my shirt to that spot, scratching at the bumpy skin, wincing when I reopen a cut.
“Don’t you remember what I told you last night?” he asks more gently.
I search his eyes, looking for a sign that he’s mocking me, but he doesn’t seem cruel. Doesn’t seem angry even.
“What does your name mean?” he continues when I don’t answer.
I draw my hand out from under my sleeve, wipe the little bit of blood on my already red napkin, and pick up my glass. I pretend to take a sip because I can’t swallow right now.
“Katerina means pure. That place isn’t good, and I’m not usually there, Kat.”
I feel like he’s warning me.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
“Nina knew you.” I remember suddenly.
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes close off a little.
“So, who are you?” I continue.
“Her father does some work for my uncle.”
“Who’s your uncle?” My mind is making up scenarios, that Russian accent suddenly much more prominent.