I reach for my glass, brush the underside of his forearm lightly, and look up.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Almost healed.”
I type on the phone again.
I never asked what happened.
I show him the screen and point to his forearm.
“We tracked the shooter to an Albanian gang and went to catch the leader in order to question him. He resisted.”
Did you find out anything?
“No, but we will. It’s just a matter of time.”
I wonder what he will do to those who ordered the shooting, and what exactly Mikhail’s job is in the Bratva, but then again, I’m not sure I really want to know.
The waiter brings our food soon after. I have no idea what I’m eating. It tastes like pork in mushroom sauce and it’s mouth-watering. Mikhail’s dish looks like pork as well, cut in small slices and with heavy seasoning over it. It smells amazing, so I lean closer, prick one piece of meat with my fork, and stuff it into my mouth.
“You like it?” There is a barely visible smile on his lips, as if he’s amused with me stealing his food.
He should smile more. I stab a piece of meat from my plate and lift the fork toward him, wondering what he’ll do. Mikhail looks at the fork, then to me and leans forward, taking the offering.
“Absolute perfection,” he says while looking right at me, and I think he is not talking about food.
For a moment, I wonder if he is going to kiss me. The way he is looking at my lips makes my body hum with excitement, but then he looks the other way. Am I doing something wrong? I know he is attracted to me. I see how he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—like he wants to burn the clothes from my body with his eyes.
What the hell is going on in that head of yours, Mikhail?
Chapter 8
Dimitri calls on Tuesday afternoon to tell me we hit another dead end with the Albanians, making the sour mood I’ve been in for days even worse. I stand up from my desk, walk to the wall of windows overlooking the street below.
After Sisi came to collect Lena for a sleepover, Bianca went into the gym, carrying her ballet shoes and her phone. A few minutes later, a soft sound of a classic melody reached my office. That was four hours ago. I’ve tried to ignore it and do some work, but images of her dancing kept popping into my head, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
I’ve also been trying to avoid her for the last two days, because every time I see her, I have this maddening urge to grab her, drag her to my bedroom, and fuck her senseless. Before I married her, I had sex regularly. Each of my partners knew my rules, the main one being no touching. But Bianca . . . I wanted to touch her everywhere.
I don’t know if Bianca would be up for it. She looked so shocked when she saw my arm. It lasted just a fraction of a second, and if I wasn’t paying attention, I would have missed it because she collected herself right away. My chest and back are in a much worse state than my arms, and I have no idea how she’ll react upon seeing that. She’ll see me without a shirt eventually. Maybe I should start wearing T-shirts in front of her, let her see my arms better so she can be somewhat prepared. I take the hem of my shirt and pull it up to my chest, regarding the scarred skin and trying to imagine looking at it through her eyes. Nope, nothing can prepare her for that.
As bad as it is, my right eye is so much worse. That, she’ll never see.
The music coming from the gym changes to a slow rock ballad, and I can’t ignore the mad craving to see her dancing one second more. At the gym door, I take care to be as quiet as possible as I open it and then lean onto the doorjamb to watch her. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized top that falls off one shoulder. Her hair is piled atop of her head in a messy knot. Her feet are bare, the ballet slippers lying discarded next to the wall, as she glides across the room in a complicated set of steps and jumps. She finishes in a beautiful pirouette.
I wait for her to turn around, but for several minutes, she just stands there, looking at the wall in front of her with her hands pressed to her lower back. When she finally turns, her eyes are red, and tears are falling down her face. She flinches when she notices me, then quickly looks away and starts walking toward her ballet slippers. She winces every couple of steps, her right hand still pressed at her lower back. That’s when it comes to me. The reason why her parts in the plays got shorter over the last few months. Why she decided to leave the troupe. I remember the poster that said it was her last show. I thought it meant for the season. It didn’t.
It takes me several large strides to reach her and scoop her in my arms. She doesn’t resist, just hooks her arms around my neck and places her head on my shoulder, still facing me. The tears are still falling, but the expression on her face is strangely blank. If not for tears and red eyes, no one would know she’s crying. I carry her to the living room and sit down on the couch, holding her close to my chest. It’s strange, how much I enjoy having her body pressed into mine. There is a folded blanket on the side, so I take it and cover her, tucking it around her chin and legs. She feels so small snuggled into me, like a kitten.