Ivan stopped and we watched while the prep guys chopped and the chefs cooked.
"Good Russian food," Ivan said. He picked up a knife and examined it, running his finger briefly along the end. He grimaced and looked at his finger.
"Sharp knives," he said and smiled at me.
Was he threatening me?
Was he trying to scare me?
If so, it was working. He was a Russian—and a friend of Stepan. Maybe a brother or cousin. Or even just another hood in Stepan's little sphere of influence.
Whoever he was, he was sending me a clear message.
He put the knife down and led me into a large dining room with opulent décor and a long elegant bar appointed in brass and crystal. In the back was a room that could see the rest of the dining room but was partially hidden for added privacy. The table was huge, with probably twenty or more chairs, and was set with silverware and glasses, bowls of flowers every couple of place settings. Overhead was a huge crystal chandelier with twinkling lights that resembled flames.
"Have a seat. We wait for your boyfriend to come."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"My little birds tell me otherwise."
"We've known each other half our lives," I protested, shrugging it off. "He was worried about me. That's all. I'm not his girlfriend."
"We shall see," Ivan said, nodding his head slowly, his eyes narrow.
We sat and Ivan took out his phone after it chimed. He spoke into it in Russian, his voice soft. He didn't raise his voice the entire time, but I could tell he was giving orders. His brow was furrowed at some of the answers he received. Finally, he ended the call and slipped the cell back into his pocket.
"So," he said and folded his hands on the table. "Tell me about Celia Parker. I understand you are first-year law student at Harvard. Very impressive."
Before I could answer, Ivan's cell chimed again. He took it out and examined a text.
"Ah," he said and slipped his phone back in his jacket. "As I thought. Hunter is here already. He didn't waste any time getting down to collect his possession."
"I'm not his possession—"
Ivan held up his hand. "His speed in getting here tells me that you are a very prized possession." He smiled like he'd won a bet. "If you meant nothing to him, he would simply let me take you home. Instead, he comes right away, dropping everything." He shook his head slowly, side to side, like he was surprised. "Hunter must be in love."
"He's not in love. We're just old friends. Actually, more like old enemies. If you knew anything about my family, you'd know that."
"Yes, your family," Ivan said and leaned forward, his eyes bright. "Your stepfather, Spencer Grant, has quite the history with Hunter's family. He was the one who helped get a RICO warrant against Hunter's uncle. Poor Sean Saint. Sick in the brain. Lost control."
Then, Ivan mimed getting shot in the head with a gun, his finger pointing at his temple.
"Shame. How mad must Hunter be at your family? And yet, he comes to get you as soon as he finds out you're with me? I think maybe, just maybe, he likes you in spite of everything. No?"
I turned my head away from his too-piercing gaze, those ice blue eyes cold and amused at my predicament.
"You're wrong. Hunter hates me."
"I don't think so."
At that moment, there was a commotion from the back of the restaurant and the door burst open. There stood Hunter, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, a black turtleneck sweater underneath. He had a gun in his hand. Two other men followed him. I recognized them from the restaurant the other night—his bodyguards. I'd never seen him so angry.
Chapter 8: Hunter
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Where the fuck was backup?”