by Nicole Fox
Luka is waiting for me in the hallway. I march through the door, prepared to rebuff his attempts at kindness or gentleness. I know who Luka really is, and I’m not going to let well-tailored pants and one smile make me soft towards him. My plan is dashed, however, when my ankle rolls on my first step out of the door.
The heels are taller than anything I’ve ever worn before, and I’m not used to the added inches. I stumble to the right and reach out for something, anything to stop my fall. That something is Luka.
One of my hands wrap around his bare forearm, the other grabs his bicep. I’m aware of and horrified by what I’m doing, but there is too much momentum for it to be stopped. I yelp and cling to him, trying to keep myself upright, all the while waiting for him to pin me against the wall again. For him to snap at me to never touch him. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist and with one fluid movement, lifts me up and sets me back on my feet. His arm stays firmly around my waist, his hip pressed against my side, as he leans down, eyebrows raised in surprise and amusement.
“Are you okay?”
I laugh. It is a nervous, hysterical kind of laugh because I almost fell and because Luka just asked me sincerely if I was okay. I feel like I’m in a dream. “Fine. Just not used to heels, I guess.”
Without another word, he grabs my hand and wraps it around his forearm like I am a debutante about to make her entrance to society, and he is my dashing escort. Then, he helps me down the stairs.
My heart hammers in my chest the entire time, wondering when he’ll let go and watch me tumble down the stairs. Wondering when this seemingly sweet moment will sour. But it doesn’t. Luka helps me down the stairs, through the front door, and out to his car—a low black sports car with deeply tinted windows. He grips my hand, his fingers warm and secure around mine, as I get into the passenger seat. Then, he closes my door and hustles around the car to the driver’s side.
This isn’t a real date. This isn’t a real date.
I’m terrified of Luka. He murdered people. Two people that I know of. Definitely more. I can’t let him woo me. I can’t forget what he has done because he decided to be nice for the first time in his life.
I’m stiff and awkward for most of the drive, trying to understand what is happening and what changed from last night. I want to ask him, but I’m afraid if I point it out, the spell will break. Luka will blink and realize he is still a grouchy asshole and stop being nice. So, I stay quiet and enjoy it.
The restaurant he chose is one of the nicest in the city. Far beyond The Floating Crown. It is a steakhouse in what used to be an old church. The ceilings stretch forever high—diners’ chatter echoing around the space like it is coming from the heavens—and stained glass windows stretch from hip-height up to the ceiling, depicting Bible stories. We are seated in front of an artistic rendering of the Biblical Eve, a serpent wrapped around her ankle, as she stretches out to pluck the apple from the tree. I can’t help but feel like it is some kind of warning meant for me.
Luka picks up his menu and then quickly closes it and lays it on the side of the table. “What do you recommend I get?”
“Me?”
“You’re the chef,” he says simply.
Right, and you’re the controlling asshole who doesn’t take orders from anyone, I want to say. Instead, I quickly scan the menu.
“What kind of food do you like?” I ask.
“Meat.” He smiles and then shrugs. “I’m sure it makes me sound like a snob, but I usually get the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“It does make you sound like a snob,” I say, smiling back at him, and then immediately chastising myself for engaging in what can only be described as flirting. I flatten my smile and turn my eyes back to the menu. “Most people walk into a restaurant like this and assume the most expensive items must be the best. So, they end up paying one-hundred dollars for a hamburger with gold leaf on it. But, no offense, that is stupid. You can’t taste gold leaf, and your body can’t even digest it, so you end up paying fifty to seventy-five extra dollars to line your toilet with gold leaf. Really, you want to focus on the quality of the meat and the flavors that accompany it.”
When I look up again, nervous that I might have offended him, there is amusement in his eyes. “So, in your professional opinion, what would you recommend?”
I point to my menu and hold it out for him to read. “The sliced filet mignon with cipollini onions, wild mushrooms, and fig essence.”
“Sounds amazing,” he says. “What are you going to get?”
I study the menu for another second. “The citrus and honey crusted rack of lamb with mint gremolata and a white wine and shallot jus.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.” He takes the menu from me and smiles. “But it sounds delicious.”
I can’t get used to seeing him with a smile. It’s like seeing someone who usually wears glasses with contacts instead. You know who they are, but something is just…off. When Luka aims his smile at me, it takes me a minute to remember who I’m looking at. Who I’m sitting across from.
His usual cold demeanor returns when the waiter comes to take our order. Luka orders what I recommended, but he doesn’t smile at the man or engage in any conversation beyond ordering our food. As soon as we are alone, however, his shoulders lower, and he seems to let his guard down.
But why? I’m the enemy. We’ve made a deal, but that doesn’t make me not a Furino. Not for four more days, at least. He should be most guarded with me.
Once we order our food, we don’t have anything to talk about. I search my brain for any topic, anything at all to discuss, but come up with nothing. I can’t even remember what the weather was like today. I didn’t go outside, and during the walk from the house to the car and the car to the restaurant, I was far too worried about where we were going and why Luka was acting so different to pay attention to something as unimportant as the temperature.
I look up, scanning the dining room for something I could mention—the décor or lighting, perhaps—when I notice a group a few tables away from us. There are six people at the table, and based purely on age and the way they are seated at the table, it looks like a woman with her parents, and a man with his parents.
“Meeting the parents.” Luka has followed my gaze to the table, his green eyes sparkling with interest. “That is always awkward.”
The man’s father and the woman’s mother are leaning across the table at one another, faces screwed up in anger. The man and woman are casting worried looks at one another and then at their parents, unsure what to do.
“It doesn’t look like it’s going very well,” I say.
Diners at the other tables around us are beginning to take notice, casting furtive glances at them and trying not to be seen. Luka and I, on the other hand, are openly gawking. We need this distraction to save our own dinner.
“It’s always tough when the families don’t get along,” I say before realizing who I’m talking to. When I do, I laugh.
Luka turns to me. “What?”
“Speaking of families who don’t get along,” I say, gesturing back and forth between us. “Maybe we should tell the couple our story to give them a little bit of hope.”
Luka’s eyes darken, and he turns away, looking back down at his plate. I don’t know what I’ve said to mess everything up, but I want it to go back to how it was. For a brief moment there, I was having a good time.
“I wonder why they hate each other,” I ponder, hoping to turn the focus back to the other table and away from us.
“Who knows?” Luka shrugs glumly.
“I bet I can guess,” I say, twisting my lips to one side of my mouth in thought. When an idea pops into my head, I smile and hold up one finger in the air. “I bet they met up at the dad’s house before coming to the restaurant, and he looks like the kind of guy who would have a parrot.”
Luka looks up at me, eyebrows pulled together. “A parrot?”
“Yep,” I nod. “He has a parrot with a
filthy mouth who mimics everything he says, and I bet he and the girl’s mother know one another from years ago, and he has bad-mouthed her to this parrot for years.”
Despite himself, I see a smile pulling at the corners of Luka’s mouth. He runs a hand down his face and through his beard to hide it, but he can’t.
“And as soon as she walked through the door, the parrot went off. It called her every name in the book, and everyone knew the parrot had to have heard those things from the dad. So, they hate each other.”
He shakes his head, biting his lower lip to hide his amusement. “That’s what you think happened?”
“It is,” I say before shrugging. “Or she is a bisexual and they both fell in love with the same nun.”
At that, Luka laughs. Actually laughs. The sound seems to surprise even him, because he quickly clamps his teeth together. Still, he is smiling and shaking his head. It’s not a bad sight in the least.
Our conversation carried on long after the two families a few tables over decided to call the evening a loss and go their separate ways. Luka asked about my experiences in culinary school and my dreams for how I’d use my degree. Unlike my dad, he didn’t laugh when I told him I wanted to have my own restaurant in the city. Then, Luka told me about more of the mansion I hadn’t seen yet—the theater room and the sun porch on the west wing that is perfect for reading or whatever I’d like to do there.
In fact, the conversation flowed so well that we keep talking in the car—discussing our valet’s terrible beard braid and the horrors of the country-rap crossover growing popular in music—and all the way until we walk inside the house.
I pause in the entryway, unsure if I should head immediately upstairs and back to my room, but Luka carries on, talking over his shoulder as he walks into the sitting room to the right.
“I still can’t believe that man got mad at you because he was drunk and tripped over your chair,” he says, flopping down on the end of the sofa in a way that is surprisingly casual. Everything about Luka seems rigid and purposeful. So, watching him sink into the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch, feels as strange as watching him walk backwards on his hands.
“I can’t believe he wanted to fight you over it,” I say from the doorway, laughing at the image of the short balding man yelling at Luka, fist pulled back and ready to fly, until Luka stood up and the man realized he would need at least three more of himself to have any chance against Luka’s sheer muscle.
Luka pats the cushion next to him like it is normal for us to relax here together. Like we do this all the time. “He’s lucky I didn’t deck him. If the restaurant manager hadn’t kicked him out for insulting you, I would have knocked him out myself.”
I move slowly around the sofa and take a seat on the far end, two cushions away from Luka. It feels like a safe distance. “One punch from you might have knocked him out forever.”
He smiles, but I can tell his jaw is clenched in anger. “He would have deserved it.”
His words from that night in the parking lot of The Floating Crown come back to me. No man gets to hurt or insult you. Except for me.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I know.” The tone in his voice is what makes me look up. His inky black hair is so dark it seems to be pulling shadows around him like a cape. Darkness cuts a sharp line across his cheekbone and down the smooth plane of his nose. He looks like a villain in a noir film. All he needs is a hat pulled low over his eyes. The hat would certainly help me because his eyes are like fire on my skin, burning a hole through me. I don’t understand the intensity, and I’m not prepared for it. “No one should talk to you like that.”
My mouth is dry, and I can’t speak or move. I just stare at him, watching as he slides down the cough towards me. As the arm that has been draped on the back of the couch moves to the cushion between us and then to my leg, his fingers curling around the smooth skin of my thigh.
Play dead. That is all I can think. It’s what you do in a bear attack…I think. But Luka isn’t a bear. He’s a snake, sliding around my skin, tightening his hold until I’m trapped.
Luka’s finger curves under my chin, turning my face to meet his. The stained-glass window from the restaurant appears in my mind again, and I see the apple dangling in front of me. Will I take a bite?
He leans forward, his lips parting slightly. He smells like cedar and bourbon and heat rolls off of him like a space heater. I don’t stand a chance.
As soon as his lips touch mine, there is a kind of fire in my veins I’ve never felt before. I can feel every inch of my body, every tingle, every brush of his skin against mine. I’m an exposed nerve, and Luka is plucking the strings.
His large hand slides up my neck, his finger hooking behind my ear so he is cupping my face, holding me like I’m precious and fragile. I grab the front of his shirt hard enough that I worry I might tear the buttons, but then I want to tear them. I want them to rip from the material and roll across the floor, exposing what feels like a rock solid chest. I want to feel his skin against mine, his weight on top of me, his warmth between my legs.
My thoughts are coming too fast as Luka wraps an arm behind my back and slides me away from the arm rest and closer to him. Then, he gently lays me back on the couch, crawling over me.
I run my fingers down his arms and across his chest. His body is hard. Everywhere. I feel the length of him pressed against my leg, and I can’t wait to never tell Chiara how big he is. But mostly, I kiss him. I’ve never had a kiss like this. My eyes are squeezed shut, and despite this being our first kiss, our bodies fit together perfectly. He sucks at my lower lip, his tongue sliding into my mouth, caressing the tip of my tongue. It is nothing like I would have imagined. His mouth isn’t crushing against mine, slanted and angry. It is sensual and deep. I could kiss him forever.
His hands worship the curves of my body, pressing into my waist and the dip of my stomach. He works the layers of my dress up so his fingers can tickle the insides of my thighs, so close to where I really want them that the sensation is maddening. I buck my hips against him, and when he doesn’t respond the way I want him to, I clumsily find his zipper and pull it down. His entire body stiffens.
When he looks down at me, the green in his eyes is gone. His pupils are blown wide with desire and lust, and he looks like a man possessed.
It feels like I’ve been doused in cold water.
What am I doing? What am I doing?
“I can’t do this,” I blurt.
The words are hoarse, filled with longing that creates a pit of shame in my stomach that I want to fall into. Luka kissed me and just like I thought, I fell apart. I gave into his gentleman act even though I know the monster underneath.
I expect Luka to scream, to rage, to force me to do whatever he wants. But he doesn’t. He pushes away from me, his mouth pressed into a tight line, and stands up and pulls on his zipper.
Quickly, I push down the fabric of my dress, covering my shaking legs, and sit up. My entire body is trembling and hot, and I feel like I am going to cry or be sick. I can’t look at him because if I do, I’m afraid of what I’ll think. What I’ll want. Because underneath it all, I still want him. My body is practically screaming for him to come back.
“Excuse me.” He turns and walks out of the room, his shoes quick taps against the marble floor. The sound disappears within fifteen seconds, but I sit on the couch for much longer, afraid that if I get up too soon, I’ll follow after him. Afraid that I’ll find him and beg him to finish what he started.
13
Luka
I have to retie my tie three times before I get it right. I’ve never been nervous before. Not like this. Though, I’ve also never been married before.
The last few days with Eve have been easy. Easier than I ever would have imagined. I’ve settled into domesticity bizarrely fast to the point where it would be strange to come home and not see Eve twirling around the kitchen making dinner. After our kiss on the couch, I was afra
id things would be tense between us, but Eve seemed content to carry on as though it never happened, so that is what I tried to do. It was hard when lust would settle over me like a personal rain cloud every time she got too close or her hand brushed mine.
I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. I’ve tried to convince myself it is just because I haven’t had her yet. Because I’ve never spent this much time with a woman without sleeping with her. But I’m not sure if that is it. Something about Eve—her courage and fight—captivates me. She looks like this beautiful, gentle little bird, but underneath it all, she is a bird of prey.
When someone knocks on my door, I rush forward embarrassingly fast to open it, thinking it might be Eve.
“Benedetto Furino is here,” my father says, pushing past me to pace across my room to the window. “He brought two of his men.”
I check the hallway for any sign of Eve and then close the door with a sigh. “Were they searched?”
He nods. “Clean.”
“That’s good, I guess.” I grab my jacket from the bed and slide my arms into it, shrugging it on.
“Everything is going to plan. So far,” he adds, eyebrows raised.
I don’t need another reminder that if this wedding goes south, it is on my head. My father has made that clear enough over the last few days.
“If you’re nervous, maybe we should just remove the Furinos,” I suggest. “There is no risk if they aren’t here.”
My father shakes his head and bumps me aside to check his own appearance in the standing mirror. He pulls on the lapels of his suit and runs a hand through his gelled hair. “We can’t. If we want to have the kind of good will this deal is supposed to foster, the Furinos have to be here.”
I know he is right, but I can’t forget the way Benedetto talked about his daughter that night at the bar. He acted as though she was nothing more than a commodity, a token he could exchange for a prize. Clearly, he doesn’t love her the way a father should, so I hate the idea that he’ll be filling that role today.