Page 118 of Scarlet Vows

“They’re Ilya’s favorite,” I say, pointing to the meat dumplings.

She watches me arrange things. “All from scratch?”

“I’ve made them before,” I say in Russian as I nod, then I bite my lip.

I could pan fry or just boil…

I pick up the sour cream like I’m examining the label. “I think I can do them justice.”

Svetlana takes the container and puts it in the fridge, then she goes to the cupboard with all her equipment in it and pulls out a digital pressure cooker.

She pulls a butcher-paper-wrapped package from the fridge. “Of course you can.”

“You think?” I don’t usually doubt myself when it comes to the kitchen.

I’m no genius, but I do okay.

“Candles, flowers. Romantic evening with Mr. Ilya? Yes, I think,” she says. “How about you do it in two parts? I will help. Just the prep and the stock.”

“Stock?”

I was just going to boil them and then decide to pan fry or not. I have frisee, micro herbs, tiny tomatoes, and baby cucumbers. Plus, fennel and goat’s cheese for a salad.

But Svetlana’s already unwrapping the chicken and putting it in the pressure cooker with water. “Yes, we make a chicken broth to cook them in, then pan fry, and serve him a three-course meal. Four if you want dessert.”

Together, we work over the next few hours, and she lets me make the dough. I also mix the ground pork with the salt, pepper, and finely diced onions.

It takes a long time to wrap each dumpling by hand. They’re easy to make but time-consuming. I suspect Svetlana may have a pelmeni mold, as I know any good Russian housekeeper or cook will, but she stays silent on it.

I want to do the work, to make and mold each one. And I think she senses this.

It takes the afternoon, and Albert snoozes in his dog bed—one of many—in a puddle of sun.

When I’m finally done, I sprinkle them with flour, and we cover the single layers with baking paper and store them in the fridge.

Next, I prep the salad and finally, I back-slice scallions for the pelmeni and chives for the soup.

Suddenly, after she adds the vegetables to the stock for a final cook, I turn.

“Dessert! I didn’t think of dessert!”

Svetlana suggest a simple platter of cheese and crackers and some strawberries for dessert.

One of the maids helps me string fairy lights in the smaller dining room, an intimate space made for the family when not entertaining. With the tablecloth, candles, and wine breathing, we turn it into a sweet, romantic place, and then I put on some music to set the mood.

The cheese board is out, and I’m ready, hovering, to pour Ilya a glass of wine to start the evening.

I hear his arrival first.

Russian slurs and creative insults fill the air as he marchesinto the living room, where I wait. He barely flicks a look at me as he grabs a bottle of whiskey and drinks from it.

“Ilya, are you okay? What’s going on?” I ask.

I haven’t seen him since yesterday, and after our text exchange, I haven’t heard a thing. I put that down to him being busy—taking on two high-level bratva jobs isn’t exactly a stroll in the park.

But now…

My stomach knots as he takes another swig. I slowly set down the wine glass and the bottle on the coffee table.