Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(7)

My stomach growls again. “Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks on fire. “I haven’t eaten much today.”

“No wonder you were ready to devour Francesco.”

I roll my eyes. “He wasn’t in any real danger.”

A server brings over a tray with drinks. Silver Eyes sips on his gin and tonic while I reach for the glass of Coke. I only mean to take a sip, but the sweetness and the fizz are so good that I end up downing the entire glass.

Silver Eyes doesn’t look away, not even for a second. He just raises his hand and the server materializes instantly. “Another drink for my guest,” he orders.

“Right away, sir.” The man practically sprints away to carry out his orders.

I regard him suspiciously. “Are you the owner?”

“Just a faithful patron.” Setting his drink down, he folds his hands on the table in front of them and leans forward to observe me closer. His eyes seem to crank up in intensity when he does that. It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.

Those things are weapons in his hands. Or in his eye sockets, or whatever.

I’m not making much sense. Even after downing a whole pizza, I’m still hungry.

“Is there a reason you aren’t eating?” he asks. “Or do you just like to torture yourself?”

This is the part where I lie. I don’t want to sound like a victim, and God knows I’ve been the beneficiary of enough pity these last few weeks.

But somehow, I get the feeling that this man isn’t the type to feel pity for anyone.

“Cash flow is a little lacking at the moment,” I explain stupidly.

“Did you lose your job?”

I suppress a sigh. “My job, my home, my husband—you name it, I lost it.” The waiter arrives with another glass of Coke. He sets it down and vanishes once again. “Although, considering my husband was never really my husband, I suppose he doesn’t count.”

“Explain.”

I gulp. Normal people don’t talk like that. They don’t hold up fingers and have waiters haul ass to do their bidding. They don’t say Explain to strangers and sit patiently as if anything but a complete explanation is immediately forthcoming.

Silver Eyes scares me.

“Apparently, our marriage wasn’t legally binding.”

“But you thought it was.”

I wince. The more times I hear that out loud, the dumber I feel. “For the last six years, yeah.”

His irises glisten in the candlelight. “Let me guess,” he says. “He cleared out your bank accounts before he disappeared on you, so now, you don’t have any money of your own.”

I thought when we sat down that I’d appreciate the refreshing change of pace. No pity from this guy, no I’m so sorry that happened to you; hang in there, champ. But when he says it like that—cold, apathetic, condescending—I find myself bristling instead. I’m about ready to throw my drink in his face and storm out, free Coke be damned.

But then the waiter returns with pizza.

That’s what my pride is worth, it seems: a slice of pizza. There’s no way I’m leaving this table now.

I grab a piece of pizza as soon as he sets it down, ignoring the brick-oven heat searing at my fingertips, and take a bite.

“Oh, sweet mother of God,” I breathe as the savory, salty tang of cheese and sauce fills my mouth.

Silver Eyes watches me take down the entire slice without a shred of self-consciousness. I don’t even care that there’s cheese plastered on the side of my mouth. I don’t care that there might be basil leaves stuck between my teeth. I bartered the last scraps of my dignity for pizza, and the sad part is…

It was so fucking worth it.

“You might think I’m stupid, but I’m not,” I blurt once I chew and swallow the last bite. Silver Eyes hasn’t looked away for even a moment. “I trusted Anthony. He was my husband, and I trusted him. I won’t be ashamed of that.”

He toys with the hinge on his diamond cufflinks as he watches me dab pizza grease from my lips.

“Trust is an assumption. Assumptions get people hurt.”

“Everyone makes assumptions.”

“Not me.” He says it so deadly serious that, as bizarre of a statement as that is, I actually kinda believe him.

“No? You didn’t assume anything about me when you saw me getting ready to fist-fight your ma?tre d’?”

“Not an assumption,” he corrects. “An observation.”

“Tomato, tomahto. Please, tell me, oh Wise One: what did you observe?”

For the second time, the corner of his mouth twitches up in something akin to a smile. It makes me shudder. “That you’re not as timid as you seem.”

I frown. “Hm. I’m pretty sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”

His lips do that twitch again, and again, I feel a snaking sense of excitement surge down my spine. It’s just the sugar rush, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.

“I have a hotel room at the Four Seasons tonight,” he tells me abruptly. “You should come see the view.”

Goosebumps spread down my arms, but I control my expression, hiding my panic deep inside. I wonder how many times he has heard the word “no” in his life. I’d be shocked if the answer had two digits.