Chapter 1

Pyotr watched the love of his life move about the kitchen with languid grace, like a butterfly floating in a beehive. Where clanging chaos reigned, pots steamed, and skillets sizzled, Cecily maintained an almost otherworldly calm as she directed cooks and busboys and waiters. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of the supper she would later cook for him and his groin tightened in anticipation of sinking into her plump, soft flesh that night.

She looked up, eyes lighting with pleasure to see him standing at the kitchen door. To Pyotr, her smile brightened the entire place as though a star from the heavens had descended to earth to illuminate his life.

Bog, he was getting sappy.

He nodded at her, but she’d already turned her attention to the stovetop, and returned to the small dining room of the restaurant, The Matrynoshka, the restaurant Maksim and Olivia had purchased.

“Your woman needs a kitchen and I need a legitimate and profitable business,” Maksim said as sat beside Pyotr, Gennady, and Iosif as they cheered the graduation of Cecily and her roommate, Latasha. The girls’ other and former roommate, Gia, would graduate next semester.

Maksim continued, “With your Cecily cooking, the restaurant is sure to be successful.”

Pyotr agreed.

He’d been uneasy about meeting her parents who had traveled up from some tiny town in southern Indiana, but they’d greeted him cordially enough. He supposed it helped that his suit, tailored to accommodate the expanse of his shoulders and generally big frame, hid the tattoos that festooned his arms and chest. He wasn’t as heavily tattooed as Vitaly, but enough so that a discerning eye would notice that much of that ink had been imprinted into his skin in prison. And some in the military. Like Vitaly, he’d been an orphan and transitioned immediately upon adulthood to army life.

He’d hated the army.

It was weird that life after the army imposed as much discipline and rules as during, with less forgiveness or tolerance.

The money was better, certainly.

“Privet,” a deep voice captured his attention, followed by a heavy hand clapping down on his shoulder. “You got a table for us?”

“Vitaly!” With a kiss to the big man’s cheeks, Pyotr welcomed his old colleague and friend. He saw that Gia, Vitaly’s myopic Italian wife, stood beside him, smiling a little uncertainly. “And Gia!” He kissed her cheeks, too, with just enough flair to make Vitaly growl.

“What am I, chopped liver?” demanded the irrepressible Latasha, her skinny figure dwarfed by Iosif, who gently and firmly restrained her by means of a big hand splayed across her belly.

“Of course not,” Pyotr chuckled as he bussed her on the forehead. Vitaly might tolerate a little teasing, but Iosif would not. “It’s good to see you, Latasha.”

“Humph.”

“I’m surprised it’s so busy,” Gia commented, looking around as she adjusted her glasses.

“Three-quarters of the customers are Bratva,” Vitaly remarked, his keen eyes sweeping the room.

“And the rest are mafia,” Iosif murmured.

“Well, if the food’s as good as I think it will be, then regular customers will soon be coming in,” Gia said. “I have faith in Cecily. She’s a terrific cook.”

“She’s a great chef,” Pyotr corrected with pride.

“Is Maksim coming tonight?” Iosif inquired.

“No,” Vitaly replied and switched to Russian. “He had business in Springfield. Giuseppe Maglione requested a favor.”

“Oh?”

“Da. Something to do with Giancarla’s parents. He didn’t elaborate.”

“They’re somewhat estranged, aren’t they?”

Vitaly shrugged. As far as Giuseppe Maglione was concerned, the Bratva owed him a favor for ridding Cleveland of the Culebras. A family dinner had witnessed the very unusual and eerie spectacle of the usually dour mafia don laughing and calling himself the St. Patrick of Cleveland. He’d had to look that one up to understand the reference.

A shiver ran through Gia’s body and immediately she immediately occupied his whole attention.

“What’s wrong, vozlyublennaya?”

“I’m queasy,” she muttered, breathing shallow, rapid breaths.

With murmured excuses, he left the small group and steered his wife toward the restroom.

Pyotr glanced at Iosif, who shrugged. “She’s pregnant, but hasn’t decided to tell anyone yet. I think she’s waiting for a family gathering.”

Pyotr’s imagination immediately segued to the picture of his fair, plump Cecily ripe with his baby nestled beneath her heart. His groin tightened again.

“You need to marry that woman,” Iosif said quietly, sticking to Russian which Latasha hadn’t quite picked up.

“Da.”

“Olivia will have Maksim kick your ass if you don’t. He doesn’t want to lose our best cook.”

Pyotr shrugged and forbore to educate them on the tension within his household, the frequent arguments, the disapproval. Cecily hated the Bratva and wanted him to quit. She mentioned that she felt undeserving of the head chef position at the restaurant because she hadn’t earned it. She offered to pay him rent, because she disliked the idea of freeloading. He refused her money; a man didn’t let a woman support him. The words hurt him more than he’d ever admit, but he could understand the sentiment.

From his older perspective, he acknowledged that Cecily was young and idealistic with a newly minted degree in the culinary arts burning in her back pocket. If Maksim hadn’t purchased the restaurant and practically bullied her to accept the position as head chef, then she would have taken the best opportunity offered to her wherever in the country that might have been.

And Pyotr would have followed her.

Bog, he had it bad.

He glanced across the small dining room where Vitaly stood guard outside the ladies’ room. Vitaly had it bad, too. Maksim’s second lifted his eyes to meet Pyotr’s gaze and he gave a short nod of recognition, one lovesick man to another.

A table of diners erupted into applause. Iosif, Pyotr, and Vitaly looked at the disruption, then relaxed. Cecily had emerged from her kitchen for a tableside presentation of cherries jubilee. With her serene smile and golden hair, he thought she looked like a slightly sweaty angel. The diners exclaimed their delight as she served them their portions of premium ice cream and cherry sauce in pretty, cut crystal bowls.

Then she walked over to where he and Iosif and Latasha stood, waiting for a table. She squealed. Latasha squealed. The women hugged and the men winced. She glanced down at Pyotr’s hands, noticing the swollen and bruised knuckles. Her lips thinned with disapproval. She turned to look at the hostess.

“Catherine, the next available table goes to them,” Cecily directed the hostess.

Other would-be diners glowered. However, being the crowd they were, none dared complain. Maksim’s inner circle received certain privileges. Priority seating at this new restaurant was, apparently, one of them.

“Spasibo,” Iosif murmured a quiet thank-you. “Latasha gets cranky when she’s hungry.”

“Don’t I know it,” Cecily laughed and earned a sharp poke from her best friend’s bony finger. She waved her own plump hands at Latasha. “Don’t poke me, you skinny thing. I still say half our grocery budget went down your gullet.” She sighed and ran her hands over her wide hips, hips that Pyotr found very handy for holding onto while he pounded into her. “I just wish I could eat like you do, but every single calorie goes straight to my thighs.”

“I like your thighs, moy sladkiy,” Pyotr growled, catching her to him and pressing a kiss on her deliciously plump and rosy lips. Despite the arguments, the phenomenal makeup sex convinced him that all was well. Then, just her for ears, he added, “And I like what’s between them even better.”

A red flush rose up her neck and burned her fair cheeks. “Pyotr! We’re in public. Worse, we’re in my restaurant!”

“Da. And you are queen here.”

“Da,” she repeated, mimicking his tone with perfection. “You get your sexy butt to a table and quit distracting me. I have a kitchen to run.”

“Are you going to let her boss you around like that?” Iosif asked in Russian.

Pyotr replied in his native language, “Like you don’t let your skinny girl boss you? Hah.”

Iosif’s expression turned sly and knowing. “I know how to keep my girl in line.”

Pyotr laughed. He couldn’t help it. Every time the outspoken nurse started spouting off, Iosif kissed her senseless. He could very well imagine what they did in private when she got a little mouthier than Iosif liked. He saw the knowing gleam in Latasha’s eyes and knew that she’d understood every word. Maybe she had caught on to the language better than anyone realized. But he also knew that Latasha ruled that relationship, not stone cold killer Iosif. She’d reel him in when she was ready and he’d find himself in front of a priest before he could gather his wits.

Pyotr just wished Cecily would do the same to him.