Page 144 of Dance of Madness

Rurik turns and shoots me a baleful look from the front seat of the Range Rover.

“Although, if you’re going to glare at me,” I sigh, “it might go down tofour?—”

“Milena,” he mutters quietly, eyes narrowing.

“Enough with the Uber jokes?”

He frowns. “I really think I should accompany you.”

“Yeah, because nothing sets the mood for a romantic evening like a scary six-foot-four Russian guy with prison tats joining the party,” I say dryly.

“Six footfive. And they’re notallprison tattoos.”

I smile at him and reach forward, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Rurik, you know I love you. But tonight is about me and Nero, okay?”

He scowls. “Milena?—”

“It’s adate, Rurik. I’m not storming an enemy stronghold.”

He turns away, reaching for the glove compartment. “I must insist, then, that you take this.”

I snort when he turns back holding a gun.

“Adate, Rurik,” I sigh again. “And where exactly did you imagine I would be putting that, anyway?”

I gesture eloquently at the form-fitting, summery, knee-length white dress, high heels, andtinyclutch purse.

Rurik frowns again. Admittedly, it's his default look.

“Okay, maybe if I had huge boobs like the girls I seeyougoing out with, I could hide it in my cleavage. But, unfortunately…” I reach up and cup my little handfuls. “I’m just not built?—”

“We’re not continuing this conversation,” Rurik mutters, looking everywhere in the carexceptat my hands on my tits.

I smile and reach for the door handle. “Works for me.” I pat his shoulder again. “I’m going to be fine, Rurik. But you know I appreciate the concern.”

His brow furrows heavily. “I will wait right?—”

“No you will not,” I say firmly. “Go home. Enjoy your night.” I grin at him. “Call up one of those girls with the big titties?—”

“Keep your phone on, Milena,” he grunts.

“That, I can do.”

I pick up the wrapped present from the seat next to me and step out of the back of the Range Rover. A man in a suit who looksmuchmore Italian mafia than Chinese hospitality opens the door, ushering me inside. The maître d' bows formally, smiling politely before escorting me to our table.

Woah.

The entire restaurant is empty.

Forty tables at one of the trendiest, most exclusive fine dining restaurants in New York, and it’sempty.

…Except for one table near the back, by a window overlooking a little tea garden.

Nero stands as the maître d' brings me over, then pulls out my chair. I don’t sit. I grin, slightly nervous all of a sudden.

“H-hi,” I say quietly, my face flushed.

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