Chapter 9 - The Price of Peace
The penthouse fell into a profound, heavy silence after the elevator doors closed.
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since the moment that little boy walked into my diner during the thunderstorm three weeks ago.
Mikhail turned around, walking slowly back toward me across the gleaming hardwood floor. The dangerous, lethal aura that had defined him just moments before evaporated, replaced by a quiet, searching vulnerability as he stopped right in front of me.
“Did I frighten you?” he asked softly, his fingers gently brushing against my hand.
I looked up into his gunmetal gray eyes—eyes that had terrified half of Chicago, yet had softened the moment they looked at his son, or at me.
“You’re a terrifying man, Mikhail Volkov,” I whispered, a slow smile spreading across my face. “You know that, right?”
“Guilty,” he murmured, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking across his rugged face. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. “Does that mean you’re going to run back to Queens?”
“Queens?” I laughed softly, resting my hands against his broad shoulders. “My diner was just shot to pieces, Mikhail. I don't have a kitchen to go back to.”
Mikhail’s expression shifted, turning into something earnest and certain. “Then don't go back. Rebuild. Better. Bigger. On the riverfront. Funded entirely by a very wealthy, very grateful investor who happens to be completely in love with you.”
I paused, looking into his eyes, reading the absolute truth written across his features. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” Mikhail said, leaning down and pressing his forehead gently against mine. “Misha loves you. I love you. And this city needs a good diner where kids can get pie after chasing kittens in the rain.”
A sudden rush of warmth flooded my chest. The fear, the chaos, the gunshots—it all melted away into the quiet certainty of the arms holding me.
“Only if I get to run the kitchen,” I whispered against his lips. “And only if you agree to do the dishes on Sundays.”
May you like
“It’s a deal,” Mikhail murmured.
And as his lips met mine in a slow, deep, unending kiss, I knew that the storm outside had finally passed for good.
