Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

“There’s my girls!” Asya coos at Sofi and me when we approach the restaurant for lunch. She gets up out of her seat to kiss Sofi’s cheeks, then pulls me in for a hug. “I’m so happy we can have some time together! Come, sit, eat.”

I do two out of the three and gear up my excuse for not doing the third. “I’m not very hungry⁠—”

“Nonsense,” Asya interrupts before I even get halfway into my B.S. “You are eating for two, and I remember how hungry my babies always were. You must be famished.”

Well, shit. I am. I can feel my stomach rumble, and my daughter is throwing her voice in the mix.

Asya smiles at me knowingly and reaches across the table to pat my hand. “My treat. I insist.”

My face heats and I’m suddenly too shy to look her in the eyes. “Thank you.”

What is it about this family that keeps melting me into a gooey puddle of feelings? It’s not that she’s treating me to lunch, which is obviously already beyond generous; it’s more how she does it. Like she’s caring for me.

Like she cares about me.

Which is so… so…

So unlike my own mother.

Plates come and go. In between courses, Asya laces her fingers together and grins at me. “So…? Have you chosen a name yet?”

“I, ah… I’m still exploring options? I don’t want to rush and give her a bad name.”

Asya clicks her tongue. “Pshkt, any name on a child half as beautiful as you will be perfect.”

Sofi nods. “Mama’s right. Go with your instincts. Have you thought about the kind of name you want? Like, Americanized or not? Natalie or Natalya, Helen or Yelena. You get the idea.”

“I almost named you Ekaterina,” Asya muses. “Almost. But the more I carried you, the more you felt like a Sofiya.”

“Perfect choice.” I smile at the two and offer up a little prayer that the right name will come to mind, eventually. Preferably before I go into labor.

“Anyway, no pressure. So, Daphne. That’s such a beautifully classical name.” Sofi takes a sip of her lemon water. “Is there a special meaning behind it?”

Fuck if I know. I shrug and try to think of a way to divert the conversation away from my parents and how they make any of their decisions. “My parents were blessed with their own interesting, classical names. But weirdly enough, my sister was given a pretty normal name by comparison. Still Greek, and ironically, it fits her better than I think anyone intended.”

Which is true. We had a good laugh about the fact that the black sheep of the family has a name that literally means “black” in ancient Greek.

Sofi furrows her brow. “Your sister?”

“Yeah. She’s pretty much the only person in my family I’m close to. We try to keep in touch, like, weekly FaceTime. She is so excited to be an auntie.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask⁠—”

Asya silences her daughter with a sudden hand plastered to her wrist. “Don’t look now.”

Obviously, that makes both of us really want to look.

So I do, as slowly and casually as possible, in the direction Asya was just glancing before she froze.

Shit.

Double shit.

… Triple, quadruple fucking shit.

My mother is locked in on my location and weaving a blazing path of barely-contained fury between tables and chairs.

To get to me.

Because she’s not only seen me, and seen that I’m here—the one place she refused to invite me to—but that I’m having a great time with people who definitely don’t like her.

It’s pretty obvious the sentiment is mutual.

“What is she doing here?” Sofi hisses to her own mother. She glances at me, but I’m frozen to my seat.

I can feel my mother’s presence draw nearer.

I can almost hear her mind preparing a scathing lecture about loyalty and “the family.”

I can definitely smell her perfume now—she’s so close.

I think I’m gonna pass out.

But then Sofi glances over my shoulder. Nods to someone. Flicks her wrist to subtly indicate Ophelia Hamish.

And before she can descend upon our table, my mother is cut off by two giant men in sharp business suits.

“Ma’am, if you’ll come with us…”

I’m very much not looking in her direction, so I can only glean her reaction from the reflection in the window and off the polished silverware. She gasps, indignant, and tries to look over their broad shoulders.

“Let me through! I have a reservation!”

“There seems to be a mix-up, ma’am. Please, come with us.”

“You have to let me through! I am a patron of this establishment!”

Neither of the men budge. “We understand, madam. But we will need to physically remove you from the premises if you continue to refuse our request.”

“How dare you?! Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll have you know, that’s my—hey! Get your hands off me!”

By now, half the restaurant is watching in interest as the men do exactly what they said they would. She’s hefted into the air by the arms and carried out the front door.

Her body language screams, I’m nowhere near finished.

God only knows what she came here to start.

The moment the men successfully escort her away, Asya blows out a heavy breath through puckered lips. “I cannot believe they allowed that awful woman back in here!”

“Want me to speak with the owner?” Sofi volunteers.

Asya shakes her head. “No need. Not for now, anyway. If she can’t accept defeat, then maybe a discussion will be in order.”

“How can she even afford the membership here? I thought she and her husband were financially ruined.” Sofi takes a deep breath and does her best to shake off the encounter. “Whatever. We took out the trash, and that’s all that matters right now.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I can say anything at all. I’m frozen in my seat, unable to even pick up my water glass without feeling my fingers tremble.

Asya seems to notice something, because she leans across the table to squeeze my hand. “It’s okay, milyy. It’s all over. That woman won’t be allowed back in here, at least not while we’re here, so there’s nothing to worry about. Just enjoy your time with us. And,” she adds with renewed excitement, “enjoy this wonderful food!”

The waiter begins setting down our next course, a study in red cabbage, and I know I need to pretend like I have the appetite to eat.

My daughter kicks inside my stomach. She couldn’t care less about Grandma causing a scene. All she wants is food.

I just wish I could shake this horrible feeling.

The feeling that my mother is only about to get worse.