Page 116 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“Of course, sir. Right away.” He smiles, bows, and disappears again.

“Five courses?” Elyssa balks. “Isn’t that a little… extravagant?”

I stare at her without blinking. “Precisely.”

She breaks off the intense eye contact and looks out the window. I notice her light up a little as a swan glides by. She’s trying hard to hide her enthusiasm every time she notices something new, something unfamiliar, something dazzling.

But she’s failing miserably.

It’s hard to believe that this woman could be a spy. She wears her heart on her sleeve.

When she turns and catches me still staring, she drops her gaze as her cheeks go red yet again. I wonder if she’s this affected by every man’s attention—or if it’s just mine that rattles her.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” she asks meekly.

“Because you keep trying to disappear,” I answer. “But if that’s your goal, you should have picked a different dress.”

She controls the blush this time, to my mild disappointment. But I don’t miss the flicker of worry that shadows her eyes.

The first course arrives quickly. It’s the beginning of one of the best tasting menus I’ve ever eaten. An army of servers comes bearing gilded plates that emanate mouth-watering scents like nothing else in this world.

Crab and oyster bisque to start. Rich, truffle-accented, but smooth enough to guzzle straight from a glass if I wanted to.

Then comes butterflied avocados, stuffed with butter-poached prawns in a light, savory cream sauce.

The main course is lobster with foie gras and caviar. William informs us that it was caught that morning off the coast of Maine and flown directly to the restaurant by private jet. Elyssa looks at him like he’s speaking an alien language.

When the fourth course hits the table, Elyssa looks at the rich chocolate mousse with reluctant longing.

“What’s that on top?” she asks, poking at it tentatively with a fork.

“Gold leaf.”

“It’s… it’s not actual gold, is it?”

The moment she asks the question, I can tell she regrets it. I don’t laugh, though. I don’t want to humiliate her—not like this. What I want is to crack her open like an eggshell and see what secrets are lying inside.

“Never mind,” she mutters. “That was a stupid question.”

It’s fucking annoying how damn endearing she is. How pure.

She picks up her spoon, hesitates, and then sets it down again.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I try not to eat too many desserts,” she admits. She seems embarrassed as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“Why?”

She shrugs her delicate shoulders. I have the urge to hurl the table aside and run my lips down her neck and all the way down to her breasts.

“Um, well… I don’t want to gain weight.”

I almost choke on a bite of mousse. “Come again?”

“I want—or, I mean, I was taught—to keep my figure for…”

She trails off. I’m immediately invested in her answer. “Please don’t tell me that sentence ends with ‘husband,’” I drawl.

---