Page 22 of Bratva Prisoner
She holds up a leather-bound volume of Tolstoy. “War and Peace. Seemed appropriate, given my current circumstances.”
“Enjoying it?”
“It’s depressing as hell, but beautifully written. What was the emergency? Really?”
“Business dispute,” I answer carefully.
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push either. Instead, she reaches over and touches my hand.
“You look exhausted. Have you eaten anything?”
“No, actually. I haven’t.”
“Then let’s fix that.” She stands up, tugging on my hand. “Come on. I’ll make you something.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Besides, I’ve been exploring your kitchen, and it’s basically a restaurant back there. I’ve been dying to try it out.”
She leads me through the house to the kitchen, where she starts opening cabinets and examining the contents like she’s planning a military campaign.
“What sounds good?” she asks as she pulls ingredients from the refrigerator. “Eggs? Pasta? I found some amazing-looking steaks, but those might be overkill for a late-night snack.”
“Surprise me.”
What she surprises me with is the best omelet I’ve ever eaten, filled with herbs from the garden and cheese that probably has more flavor complexity than most restaurants achieve. But it’s not the food that captures my attention; it’s watching her cook, the way she moves, and the little humming sounds she makes when she’s concentrating.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask before I take another bite.
“Necessity. When you’re living on your own from eighteen, you either learn to cook or survive on ramen and takeout forever.”
“Most people choose ramen and takeout,” I point out.
“Most people don’t have parents who spent the grocery money at poker tables.” She says it matter-of-factly, like it’s just another piece of her history rather than evidence of the neglect she survived. “I got good at making a lot out of a little.”
“Tell me about college,” I prompt, wanting to steer the conversation toward happier territory. “What did you study?”
“Business, with a focus on marketing. Not the most creative choice, but practical.” She refills my coffee cup, playing the perfect hostess in my kitchen. “I wanted something that would guarantee steady employment and the ability to support myself.”
“Smart.”
“Safe,” she corrects.
“What would you have chosen if safety weren’t a factor?”
She considers the question while cleaning up, and when she finds the answer, she clicks her tongue. “Photography, maybe. Or marine biology. Something that would let me travel, see the world, and explore places most people never get to experience.”
“What’s stopping you from doing that now?”
“Besides the psycho ex-boyfriend and complete lack of financial resources?” she asks with a chuckle. “Nothing at all.”
The laugh does something to me, makes me want to hear it again and again until I’ve memorized every note. How is it possible that this woman, who’s been through hell and back, can still find humor in her situation?
“After this whole thing is resolved,” I hear myself saying, “you could do those things. Travel, explore, pursue whatever interests you.”
“With what money?”
“I could—”
