His hands tightened around the steering wheel, drawing her attention to his tattoos again. It was only when he spoke that she finally tore her gaze away from the spider and its intricate web.
“I am sure there are far more places in Manhattan or Brooklyn for you to enjoy your birthday, other than my brother’s club,” he said. “No doubt, your father has made it perfectly clear where you are and are not allowed to go in New York, Violet.”
She liked the sound of his voice, and the way his r’s rolled a little harder than his brother’s had back at the club.
But she really liked the way he said her name. It came out a little differently than how most people said it. Instead of just the “i” following the “v” in her name, he said with a hard “o” following the “v”.
She shouldn’t have liked it at all, but she did.
Violet chewed on her inner cheek. “It’s not fair that you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“You know it,” he said, smiling in that way of his again. “But I’ll remind you.”
He held out a hand, palm up, while keeping his other hand firmly on the wheel. Violet glanced between his hand and his face, unsure of what he wanted her to do.
“Shake politely like you’ve been taught,” he urged.
She glowered at him. “No, thanks. Only civilized people shake hands.”
He cocked a brow. “And what does that make me, a savage?”
Violet couldn’t have missed the heat in his tone even if she tried. Deciding she had pushed her luck enough for one night, she slid her smaller hand into his waiting palm, and ignored the way the heat of his rougher skin seemed to siphon straight into her smoother flesh.
His fingers circled around her hand before she thought better of touching the man, and squeezed just hard enough to make her look up at him.
“A savage man—one not like me—wouldn’t have bothered to get you inside a car, krasivaya,” he said, his timber dropping to a lower note. “He would have done what he wanted when he had you alone in an office.”
Violet tried to tug her hand out of his grasp, but he held tight.
“Kazimir Markovic,” he said, squeezing her fingers once more. “But I prefer Kaz. It’s very nice to meet you again, Violet Gallucci.”
Finally, he released her hand. Violet sat back in the seat fast, confused.
“Again?” she asked.
Kazimir—Kaz, he’d said—resumed driving like nothing had happened. “We met once, a long time ago.”
Violet didn’t remember that at all.
“When?”
“A long time ago,” Kaz repeated quietly. “You were helping me to find the sun that day, if I remember correctly.”
He was talking in gibberish.
Violet was sure of it.
Then, she had a more pressing realization. It settled hard in her gut, thick and heavy. She knew the surname Kaz mentioned only because of who she was, and who she was supposed to stay away from. Occasionally, that name was whispered between men at her father’s dinner table, but never discussed for very long.
“Markovic?” she asked. “Like the … Brighton Beach Markovic family?”
She thought better of saying Russian mafia, but just barely.
Kaz didn’t take his gaze off the road as he chuckled. “Ah, she finally understands.”
“Answer my damn question.”
“We prefer to call it Little Odessa,” he said. “But yes, one and the same.”
Oh, God.
Violet went from being pretty sure she had fucked up, to knowing she was in such deep shit there would be no digging her way out of it.
“Drop me off at the next intersection,” she said quietly.
Kaz laughed. “What?”
“I can’t be in this car. So you need to let me out so I can call a cab and go home.”
“No,” he said simply.
Violet’s mouth popped open. “No?”
“That’s what I said, Violet. No. You made your way down to Coney, knowing that you shouldn’t be there, and now I’m going to make sure you make your way back to Manhattan and you stay there.”
Her father was going to kill her.
Violet’s frustration boiled over in a slew of words. “How do you even know where I live? Do you realize how creepy that is?”
Were the Russians watching her or something?
Her family?
Did her father know?
For a brief moment, Kaz’s indifferent, handsome mask cracked and he frowned. “I am not so different from you, Violet, despite the culture shock.”
“Can you stop talking me in circles for five fucking seconds?”
“You’re awfully combative for a woman who grew up in the house of an Italian mafia boss,” he said.
Violet glared. “My father didn’t raise a doormat.”
“But I suspect he did raise a lady.”
Ouch.
Point taken.
Violet tampered her rudeness for a second. “What did you mean when you said that you’re not so different from me?”
Kaz tipped his head in her direction, and a small smile played at the corner of his lips. “I know where I should and should not be going, Violet. I grew up being told where it was safe to play, so to speak. I don’t suspect your raising was much different, which is why finding you on Coney Island was such a shock.”