Page 24 of Innocently Captured By the Bratva

He chuckles, and I don’t look up when he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Chapter 10 - Mark

I hold the door open for Quinn as we arrive at Chez Noir, the chic, upscale restaurant. She steps inside, her green eyes scanning the room with a hint of skepticism. I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing her ear as I whisper, “It's essential to maintain appearances, to be seen in public together.”

Quinn turns to me with a smirk. “How romantic. Way to sweep a girl off her feet.”

I flash her a charming grin. “I could take you on a real one sometime.”

“I'd rather eat dirt,” she quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I chuckle under my breath as the hostess leads us to our table. Quinn's fiery wit never fails to amuse me. I may be the one holding her to a bargain she never wished to be a part of, but she refuses to be a passive prisoner. It's one of the many things I find intriguing about her.

We take our seats, and I lean back in my chair to observe Quinn as she peruses the menu, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in soft waves around her face. Even in the dim lighting, her beauty is undeniable.

“What's your poison tonight, Princess?” I ask, nodding towards the drink menu. “Let me guess—something fruity and girly?”

Quinn's eyes narrow as she meets my gaze. “Vodka martini. Dry. And don't call me princess.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” I retort with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. This playful back-and-forth has become our ritual. I enjoy pushing her buttons, and sometimes, I feel she likes to push mine, too.

The waiter comes over to take our drinks and dinner orders. “I'll have a scotch, neat,” I say without looking at the menu. “And the lady will have a large vodka martini. Make it extra dry and extra dirty.”

Quinn gives me a look that could cut glass, but doesn't correct me. I stifle a satisfied grin. Little by little, I'm learning how to navigate her moods—when to push and when to yield. I know ordering her a double shot is something she’d never pick a fight over.

Once the waiter leaves, I shift my focus back to Quinn. She's watching me closely, her green eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight, stunning beyond belief. In moments like this, it's easy to forget that she’s merely a partner in crime. The boundary between us feels blurred, dangerous, even perilous. At least, from my perspective.

Our drinks arrive, and I pass her hers. “Don’t go dancing on tables once you down this,” I tease.

“You wish.” She rolls her eyes, taking the glass from me. When our hands touch, I feel a spark go up my arm and quickly retreat.

“You’re right. I’d hate to see that disaster.” I grin over at her.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent dancer.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen me yet,” I shrug, and jump off my chair, give a complicated twirl with a click of my fingers, and sit back down.

She laughs. God, how she laughs. I instantly realize I’d do anything to hear it again.

“You dance like my grandfather,” she says, trying to catch her breath through her laughter.

“Your grandfather? Tell me about your family, Quinn. What were they like?”

I ask because I’m genuinely curious.

She hesitates for a moment, her gaze drifting to the white tablecloth. “My parents are the most loving people you can imagine. They always put my needs before their own. They’re retired now, traveling the world.” A wistful smile plays on her lips. “I lost my grandparents when I was young, but I still remember how they doted on me. They made every visit feel like a special occasion.”

I nod, sensing the undercurrent of sadness beneath her words. “I never got to meet mine.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, clutching at her chest. “And your parents?”

“They passed when we were in Russia. I miss them every day.”

Quinn meets my gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between us. “I'm sorry,” she says softly.

I shrug, attempting to downplay the sudden vulnerability I feel. “It was a long time ago.” I take a sip of my scotch, welcoming the familiar burn. “Growing up in a Russian Bratva family wasn't easy, but my grandparents always ensured I feltloved, even when my parents were occupied with other things. They're the reason I have any good memories of my childhood.”

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