Page 55 of Nikola
He gallantly offered me his arm, and I took it as we entered the restaurant.
I’d always been fond of the vibrant, culture-rich ambiance of New Orleans, and today was no different. Sazerac Bar and Restaurant was located on the corner of St. Louis Street in the historical French Quarter of the city, where deeply patinated walls and old photography decorated the place.
A large crystal chandelier dominated the room and tables and booths surrounded the black-and-white checkered dance floor. There were even a few couples dancing.
“I had a table reserved,” Kostya explained.
We took a seat by the magnificent arched window that looked out onto Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral. Lively crowds strolled past, the sweet alcoholic concoction of gin, rum, vodka, and melon liqueur the locals referred to as hand grenades in their hands as they laughed and chatted. The windows were open, allowing a warm breeze to sweep through from the river and along the busy street, the smell of croissants and local spices drifting in the air.
“Let’s see how long it takes Nikola to shut this place down,” he joked.
“You really think he will?”
“No fucking doubt.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re that sure, huh?”
“I know my cousin.” A waiter showed up and Kostya gave him our order. “I’m glad you’re forcing his hand, although I’m slightly surprised,” he said.
My brows furrowed. “Why surprised?”
He shrugged. “You’ve had this crush on him for… how long? And you’ve never acted on it.”
My cheeks flushed, burning with shame. “Am I that obvious?”
He chuckled. “Only to those of us who pay attention. Our parents, on the other hand, are blind as fuck. So don’t worry about that.”
Our waiter came back with our non-alcoholic drinks. Kostya didn’t like to push the envelope, and neither did I. We left the alcohol for family gatherings and school parties.
“So why the sudden change?” Kostya asked, sipping on his Sprite.
My shoulders slumped. “Papa’s arranged a marriage for me.”
Surprise flickered in his pale blue eyes.
“Are you sure?” I nodded. “To whom?”
My gaze darted to the street where people mingled on the square, lovers held hands, and families enjoyed their midday strolls.
I sighed, returning my attention to my date, and gave him the dreaded name: “Amadeo Marchetti.”
He shook his head in disapproval. “Well, if Nikola doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I will marry you myself. There’s no fucking way you’re going to spend your life tied to a Marchetti.”
I chuckled. “Promise?”
He raised his glass and vowed, “On my life.”
I mimicked his gesture and we clinked our sodas.
“Here’s to marrying you,” I teased. “If all else fails.”
He grinned. “I’ll be waiting.”
And just like that, a sense of peace I didn’t think I’d ever get back washed over me.
18
NIKOLA
