Paula is at home with the nanny, a necessity which caused a stirring of uncertainty in me earlier today.
I was almost going to call the whole thing off until Artem pulled me aside.
“Listen,” he said, leaning close to me and looking at me, into me, in that way only my husband could.
Like he could see everything I was made of and was ready to support it, all of it, in any way he could.
Perhaps that’s part of the reason his business has flourished so much this past decade, his legitimate businesses far outweighing the Bratva life.
“You’ve worked your way up to this moment. You’ve kicked ass as head chef for three years and now you’re going to open your own restaurant. I know it’s hard, but the children want you to follow your dreams. They respect you. They look up to you. They love you, Anna. I love you. So go out there and kick some goddamn ass, okay?”
My body fills with warmth as we pull up outside the restaurant, the name emblazoned in crimson writing above the door, the calligraphy stylish, the name – to anybody but my husband and me – quite ambiguous.
My restaurant is called The Auction House.
Artem glances over at me, a sly smile on his lips, and as I reach for the door handle I feel the same smile tugging on mine.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Always,” I say.
For anything.
With him.
Forever.
Rocky wakes up and sits up straight, tongue hanging from his mouth, eyes alert as he looks around to see what’s going on. I think he can smell the canapés.