Page 7 of Toxic Temptation (Krayev Bratva #1)

VESPER

Why not, indeed. I’m asking myself that question a million times over right now.

As we get back into Kovan’s SUV in our new clothes: Why not start screaming until some Good Samaritan comes to my rescue?

As we pull away from the curb and start cruising down Van Ness Ave toward Nob Hill, neither of us saying a word: Why not throw open the door, leap out, and stop, drop, and roll in the middle of rush hour traffic like I’m auditioning to be Charlie’s newest Angel?

In short: why not run for my life?

But the why nots get progressively more insane as we park in front of a quiet neighborhood Italian joint and climb out. It goes from “escape fantasy delirium” to just plain “fantasy.”

As in, why not let myself enjoy the feel of expensive Saks Fifth silk against my overheated skin?

Why not pretend this is a date instead of a hostage situation?

Why not look at the man who has brought me here against my will and notice things like how tall he is, or how big his hands are, or the fact that the white shirt he bought with a careless swipe of his titanium credit card is just tight and translucent enough to show teasing little hints of his tattoos and the shape of his body underneath?

In short: why not dream, if only for a moment?

“You’re staring.”

I blink and grimace when I realize that that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

He pauses, his hand flexing on the handle of the restaurant door. “Because you won’t like what you find.”

Then he sweeps open the door and gestures for me to enter first.

We step inside, Kovan shadowing close at my back. I breathe in Italian wine, simmering red sauce, citronella, and the warmth and bustle of the candlelit kitchen. My stomach rumbles again. I haven’t consumed anything uncaffeinated since my pre-dawn protein bar. Needless to say, Mama’s hungry.

It doesn’t hurt that the place is beautiful.

Fairy lights strung between ivy-covered brick walls, with faded murals of frolicking woodland creatures peeking through the bare patches in the foliage.

Italian jazz melts through hidden speakers.

None of the other few diners here pay us a bit of attention.

Kovan adjusts the cuff of his shirtsleeve, rolling it back to expose brawny forearms. He points with one of those huge hands toward a table in the back. “Sit.”

I could argue. But snapping back at him hasn’t done me a bit of good today. In fact, it’s gotten me a gun between my ribs and a one-way ticket to a kidnapping I never asked for. Maybe it’s time to try compliance instead.

So, with a sigh, I walk toward the table.

To my surprise, Kovan beats me there and pulls out my chair for me.

I blink, wondering for a second if he’s gonna pull it out from under me and send me crashing to my ass.

I wouldn’t peg him for having a juvenile sense of humor like that.

But if there’s one thing I know about men, it’s that they know how to disappoint you in ways you never could have foreseen.

He doesn’t, though. He waits until I’m settled down and then scoots me up to the table.

Then he walks to the other side and claims his own seat.

He situates his back against the wall, eyes scanning back and forth between the kitchen door and the one we came through that leads back out to the sidewalk.

I get the feeling these seats were not chosen by accident.

“You know,” I begin, “this whole thing—the clothes, the interrogation—it’s really not necessary.”

“Many things I do aren’t.” He doesn’t bother looking at me. He unrolls his place settings, lines up the cutlery with the grooves in the tile tabletop, and lays his napkin crisply across his lap. “But life would be bleak if I only ever did what I had to do.”

I’m torn between rolling my eyes and laughing, so I split the difference by doing neither. Instead, I look down at my menu.

I’m not really reading, though. It’s been too ridiculous of a day to pretend like I’m capable of that. Words like formaggio and salmone alla griglia are scarcely more than meaningless scribbles. The letters are wriggling around on the page like live bait.

There’s also the lingering problem of the man who has caused today’s emotional blunt force trauma to the brain. I can’t ignore him no matter how hard I try. Every time I double down my focus on the menu items, he shifts or sighs or simply exists , and my attention goes veering right back to him.

That hand of his rests on the table, twisting a ring around and around his finger. It’s very large. The hand, not the ring. Well, the ring, too. But mostly the hand.

Jesus, I’m not making any sense. I’m shell-shocked, exhausted, or both.

A waiter approaches and clears his throat. I look up gratefully, but he does not look like he’s going to intervene in this Stockholm-Syndrome-in-the-making. If he’s eighteen years old, then I’m eighty.

“Have you decided?” he asks in a voice that cracks from husky to high halfway through.

“The lady will have the lobster risotto and the seared branzino,” Kovan says without consulting me. I open my mouth to object on sheer feminist-y principle, but he couldn’t care less. “And I’ll take the ribeye, medium rare.”

“Anything to drink?”

Kovan looks over the top of his menu at me. “Wine?” he asks.

“I don’t drink.”

His eyebrow arches. “Ever?”

“Not when I’m being held against my will, at least.”

“I’m not holding you against your will anymore.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“You could walk out right now,” he says, leaning back in his chair like he’s discussing the weather. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

My heart does this stupid little skip. “Then why am I here?”

“You tell me.”

I glance up. The waiter, astonishingly, is still here, but the elevator music in his head must be turned up to deafening levels, because he says nothing about any of the stuff he just overheard.

Kovan’s mouth twists up in a wry smile. He looks at the boy. “We’ll get a bottle of whatever’s handy.”

He nods, bows, and retreats.

I scowl at Kovan. “That was presumptuous. What if I was a vegetarian?”

“Are you?”

“No, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, Vesper?”

The amused ease with which he says my name makes my stomach flutter. Like he’s tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue to see if he likes the flavor. Like he’s weighing whether or not to have another bite.

I press my thighs together under the table and hate myself for it.

“The point is common courtesy,” I say. “Most people ask before ordering for someone else.”

“I’m not?—”

“If you finish that sentence with ‘most people,’ I’m going to throw up on the table.”

He chuckles and leans back in his chair, studying me with those impossible green eyes. “Tell me about your family.”

The subject change gives me whiplash. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“About what, exactly?”

“About who you are when you’re not saving dying children or getting caught in the crossfire of my life.”

His life. Like today was just another Tuesday for him. Shoot, maybe it was.

“There’s not much to tell,” I say, taking a sip of wine that appeared while I wasn’t paying attention. “I have a mother and a brother. We’re… normal. Mostly. Usually.”

“Normal families don’t usually produce pediatric surgeons.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The kind of person who chooses to spend their life cutting into children? That takes a specific type of damage.”

I set my wine glass down harder than necessary. Some of it sloshes over the rim and trickles onto the table. The sight of that red liquid running down the cracks in the tile is a little too on the nose after today’s misadventures. I shudder and dab it up quickly with my napkin.

Looking back at Kovan, I say in a tight voice, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He holds up a reassuring hand, palm toward me. “Breathe, Doctor. I’m not insulting you. I’m saying it takes someone who understands pain to want to fix it in others.”

That casual observation lands too close to home, all things considered. I don’t like being seen by this man. I don’t like feeling transparent.

I’ve spent most of my life being as opaque as possible to as many people as possible. It’s better that way. Safer. Not happier, maybe, but certainly easier.

I look away, toward the couple at the table next to us sharing dessert and laughing like they don’t have a care in the world.

Like they’ve never watched someone they love slip away while they stood there, helpless.

Must be nice.

“My father was a surgeon,” I say quietly. “At St. Raphael’s, actually. He used to take me to work with him when I was little.”

“‘Used to’?”

“He died. Ten years ago. Liver failure.”

I expect the usual responses— I’m sorry for your loss; he must have been a good man; at least he’s not suffering anymore . But Kovan just watches me, waiting.

“I couldn’t save him,” I continue. “I had all this knowledge, all this training, and I couldn’t do anything. He was lying there, dying, and I was completely useless.”

The memory rears up like it always does—sudden and sharp and devastating.

Dad’s hand in mine, his breathing getting shallower, the machines beeping their warnings while I stood there and watched the strongest man I’d ever known fade into nothing.

Into a flat line on the monitor and a body bag with the zipper tugged up.

“So you became a pediatric surgeon.”

“So I became a pediatric surgeon,” I confirm. “Because if I can’t save the people I love, maybe I can save someone else’s.”

The food arrives, but I barely notice. “And that’s your damage,” he murmurs. His eyes roam over me, across me, and then away, like he knows I need that moment to gather myself together before I do something truly unhinged, like start to cry.

“What about you?” I ask, if only to hold the humiliating tears at bay. “What’s your damage?”

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “What makes you think I have any?”