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Maeve appeared and set our drinks down before us. “Have you decided what you’d like to eat?” she asked.
Duran turned to me. “Do you like seafood?”
I nodded.
He pivoted back to Maeve. “Do you have that seafood platter you had last time?” he said, leaning his elbows on the table and rifling through the menu. “It was fantastic.”
“Yes, we’re putting it back on the menu tomorrow. I’m sure they can make it up for you though,” she said.
“If not, we’ll take the special,” said Duran. He passed the menus back without giving me a chance to look at it and Maeve was gone, her red ponytail bobbing as she hurried to the kitchens.
“How old is Olivia?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Almost nineteen, I think,” Duran said. He lifted his scotch to his lips, his perfect fingers resting on the sparkling glass. “The outfit likes to pair them up young before some bastard pops their cherry before their husband can.”
“You’re so vulgar about it,” I said, frowning.
He shrugged, fixing his bottomless gaze on me. “I’m realistic. Our men are old fashioned, which means they want virgin brides. If we want to build alliances, they need to get what they’re promised. Even Lucien, who prides himself on being a bit of a modern man, would be livid with her parents if Olivia wasn’t a virgin on her wedding night.”
I felt my lips part and my jaw drop. “That’s barbaric. How would you even know?”
Duran studied me, his head cocked and the chandelier glittering off his narrowed eyes. “Iris, you do know you’ll bleed when you get fucked for the first time?”
A flush of heat traveled up my throat and down between my thighs. I wanted to be horrified at his boldness, but his words conjured a mental image of Duran stripping my virginity from me and my body roused at the thought. I struggled to fight the warmth spreading between my thighs, arranging my face in self-righteous indignation.
“Of course, but it’s not always reliable,” I said.
“It’s more reliable than you think,” he said, studying me intently. “Who told you it wasn’t?’
“I just read it online, I guess,” I said, trying to sound casual as though I was used to discussing sex so openly.
“Probably written by women who fuck men with small dicks.”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, surprised by the glint of amusement in his eyes. He held my gaze as he brought his scotch to his mouth and then lowered it. A slow warmth began creeping up my stomach and I dropped my head, attempting to hide my blush behind a curtain of hair.
His attention shifted to the door all the way on the opposite end of the dining room. Then his mouth parted and his face tightened, coldness creeping over him. There was a subtle shift in his stance, a broadening of his body and shifting of his legs apart as though he wanted to appear bigger and more at ease. I turned to look and he made a harsh noise in his throat.
“Keep still, don’t stare,” he said. “It’s the Russian bastards. Now isn’t the time to provoke them, so better just to keep our eyes to ourselves and not attract attention.”
“Is the outfit at war with them?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Duran whispered, his face tightening. “But that could change.”
My stomach fluttered with nerves, but I forced myself to take a sip of wine. His eyes followed the Russians behind me and I could tell they were coming closer. Then a broad man stepped into view, dressed impeccably in a gray suit, and put his hand on Duran’s shoulder. His face was handsome enough and his eyes were heavy above a thin gash of a mouth.
“Duran Esposito,” he said in an accented tone. “Lovely to see you here. And your beautiful companion.”
“A pleasure,” Duran said crisply, shaking his hand.
“Who is this?”
I opened my mouth and then froze as his eyes slid over me, studying me like I was laid out on the table in a dish. His gaze lingered over my breasts and I dropped my face, unsure whether to be embarrassed or angry by his attentions.
“Hold on, I know you,” he said. “Or rather, I know your father, Edward Scavo. Saw him at the club just the other day. How do you know this Italian bastard?”
Duran’s gaze darkened despite the man’s light tone. “She’s my date.”
“Well, Duran’s date,” he said. “I’m Viktor Anatole.”
