Page 7 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

Dimitri says nothing. "This week isn't about rebellion," I continue.

"It's not about lying or running or shirking what I owe the Baranovs.

I know what's waiting for me when I go home.

I know the duty, the name, the blood." I turn to face him.

"But I only asked for seven days. In this impossibly long life of always belonging to someone else, just seven days where I'm my own person. "

His gaze meets mine. "You're still my problem," he says gruffly.

"Always," I answer. "But I'm here, and I'll be okay. I just need you to trust me."

Dimitri shakes his head like he's already regretting letting me out of his sight. But he steps aside. "Brush your teeth. You smell like alcohol and recklessness."

I almost laugh. "Which part bothers you more?"

"That you don't smell sorry."

I pad into the bathroom, the soft smile lingering on my lips. When I return, he's already moved to the door. "Sleep," he says, nothing more.

"I will."

He steps out into the hall, shuts the door behind him.

I stand in the stillness, the wine still warm in my veins, before my feet carry me to the bed.

The sheets are cool and clean. The pillow smells faintly of lavender and unfamiliar detergent.

I lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of Paris until my eyes close. I dream with the windows open.

Morning arrives with pale gold light filtering through the curtains of my hotel room. I've slept three hours, spent the rest analyzing my conversation with Markov, cataloging his mannerisms, trying to identify what game he's playing. He never asked for my number, yet I know we'll meet again today.

Some certainties are worth having.

I dress in simple clothes—jeans, a soft sweater, flat shoes that could carry me into a run if needed. I tuck my hair back and apply minimal makeup before stepping onto the street. Dimitri is keeping his distance, as promised, but I know he'll be watching.

The walk takes me past a few cafes, and two streets down, I find my stranger from the bar leaning against a weathered wall, as if conjured from my thoughts.

"You found me," I say, unsurprised.

"You weren't hiding." His eyes, clear in morning light, catch something I missed in the bar's dimness—flecks of amber amid the blue, like ice held to flame.

He doesn't explain how he knew where I was staying, but he had to have known, given that he's not too far from the hotel.

I don't ask. Some questions change the temperature between people, and I prefer this careful warmth to cold suspicion.

We walk together through streets awakening to commerce and conversation.

Shopkeepers raise metal gates. Café workers arrange chairs on sidewalks.

He guides me with slight pressure at my elbow, a gesture that should feel presumptuous but instead feels like muscle memory, as if we've walked these paths before.

Our path takes us to a bursting flower market filled with color and scent under a glass-roofed pavilion.

Buckets overflow with blooms, peonies heavy with morning dew, irises rigid with pride, roses still furled against the day.

He touches nothing, but his eyes linger on certain stalls, certain colors.

"What are you thinking?" I ask, breaking our comfortable silence.

"That flowers are strange currency," he says. "They die so quickly, yet we keep buying them."

"Maybe that's the point. Beauty isn't meant to last."

He turns to me, his expression unreadable. "Is that what you believe?"

I don't answer. Sofia might, with some sweet philosophy about transience and joy. But I'm slipping, finding it harder to maintain her voice, her thoughts. This man sees too much.

He buys a single white camellia from an old woman with soil-stained hands.

She wraps the stem in damp paper, smiling at him with the universal expression of someone who believes she's witnessing romance.

He doesn't correct her assumption. Neither do I.

"For you," he says, offering the bloom. "No roses. Too obvious."

Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel a jolt—static from the dry air, I convince myself, and nothing more.

What am I doing here? This wasn't part of my plan.

Two precious days of freedom spent with a stranger who sees through my disguise, who could be anyone, CIA, private security, a hired gun with orders regarding the Baranovs.

The risk calculation doesn't balance. And yet I keep walking beside him, keep accepting his small offerings, keep pretending this is just a holiday diversion.

We find a street vendor selling pain au chocolat still warm from the oven.

He buys two, hands me one wrapped in thin paper.

The pastry flakes between my fingers, chocolate melting against my tongue.

A small pleasure, magnified by freedom and the way his eyes linger on my mouth.

"You have…" He gestures to the corner of my mouth.

I brush away the crumb, slower than necessary. His gaze follows the movement with an intensity that makes my skin warm.

"Tell me something true," I say.

"Truth is subjective." He takes a bite of his own pastry, chews slowly before continuing. "I like this part of Paris best, away from the monuments. I prefer dogs to cats. I don't trust people who drink Scotch with ice."

Nothing personal. Nothing revealing. I recognize the technique because I employ it myself—give harmless facts to satisfy curiosity without exposing vulnerability.

"Your turn," he says.

"I speak seven languages fluently. I love flowers. I've never been on a Ferris wheel."

His lips quirk. "We could fix that last one."

"Not today." I glance at my watch—a habit when deflecting, one I should break. "What brings you to Paris?"

"Work." He discards his empty pastry wrapper in a nearby bin. "And you?"

"Escape."

The word slips out before I can catch it.

His eyes sharpen with interest, but he doesn't press.

Instead, we drift toward a café with wicker chairs spilling onto the sidewalk.

We order espresso in tiny cups that we cradle in our palms. We watch Parisians pass—students with heavy bags, businessmen with synchronized strides, young mothers with strollers.

He doesn't move to end the day, although he says he's here for work.

And I have no wish to be alone when I could explore the city with him, although this realization, as it forms, terrifies me.

Dimitri sends me a few messages as the day progresses. I'm careful enough to reply to each one, to let him know I'm safe.

We spend the next couple of hours like this, moving through the city, speaking in half-truths, existing in the space between strangers and something else.

He keeps his history close, deflecting my careful probes with slight subject changes, with counter-questions, with that tapping of his finger against whatever he's holding.

I recognize myself in his guardedness. Wonder what he's hiding, who he's hiding from.

Evening approaches with a chill that turns breath visible.

I've been checking my surroundings all day.

No indication that I've been followed. The man notices my vigilance but doesn't comment.

His silence is another point of connection between us, the understanding that looking over one's shoulder is as natural as breathing.

We find ourselves in a narrow alley as dusk settles over the city.

Ancient buildings lean toward each other overhead, framing a rectangle of darkening sky.

A jazz trio plays in a nearby square, their music flowing around corners, bouncing off stone walls—saxophone and bass and drums having a conversation we're privileged to overhear. "Dance with me," he says suddenly.

I hesitate. "Here?"

"Why not?" His hand extends between us, an invitation rather than a demand. "No audience. No expectations."

It'd be very wise to refuse. Dancing requires proximity, physical contact, all of which are dangerous allowances for a woman like me. But the music tugs at something I've kept locked away, something that wants to move, to feel, to forget calculation for just one moment.

Before I can second-guess myself, I place my hand in his.

His fingers close around mine, warm, certain, callused in places that speak of weapons training rather than manual labor.

He pulls me closer, his other hand firm at my waist. A low heat rises in my stomach, and I shiver at his touch.

If he notices, he's gentleman enough to not point it out.

We move together, finding rhythm in the spill of music. His steps are fluid. Mine match his as if we've rehearsed. Our bodies seem to remember dances from other countries, other contexts. "Who taught you to dance?" he asks, his voice low near my ear.

"My father insisted." The truth slips out again. I course-correct. "He believed in a traditional education."

His hand shifts slightly at my waist, the smallest pressure guiding me through a turn. "Mine too, though our definitions of 'education' might differ."

I'm falling a little. I recognize the sensation, the lightness in my chest, the slight dizziness that has nothing to do with the spinning.

This isn't ideal, and if anything, Markov is just another lie among many.

A performance for a purpose. Except I have no purpose here except freedom.

No game except the one I'm playing with myself.

And perhaps, if I let myself have this—him—then this could be the full Paris experience.

After this, we'd return to the normal rise and fall of our lives and speak no more of the week that once was.