He's Strong. He's Hot. He's Foreign. (And He's in the Mafia?)

“Be quiet, Jane is still sleeping.”

“Who cares? Little bitch should go back to the farm…I have been waiting over a year for you to dump her and go for someone more your type, don’t you remember Anna or Trish?”

“Things can change Ivan.”

They started muttering to each other in Russian. I eventually heard their voices carry off into the hallway and decided it was safe to get up. I hated Peter’s brothers. Well, I felt more fear towards them than hate. I usually tried to stay out of their way.

I got up slowly, my ears on alert the whole time, trying to listen for them. I crept towards the bathroom door at the other end of the room. Before I could open the door, Ivan burst into the room, his blue eyes, which were identical to Peter’s, cold and teasing. He was as tall and muscled as Peter, if not more.

“Where’s Peter?” I snapped, pulling my pajama shirt down, making sure it covered my butt.

“He just went out to get a couple things, he said I should check and see if you were up,” he explained. His voice was rougher than Peter’s, almost like he had sandpaper lining his throat, scratching together as his talked.

“I can be by myself, you don’t have to babysit me,” I muttered, “Little bitches can take care of themselves,” I glared up at him, arms crossed.

“So you heard me?” He smirked, “Maybe you should listen to my advice, you are not beneficial for him, you just distract him from his work.”

“You don’t know anything about us and who are you to tell me I’m no good for him? Maybe it’s you guys who are bad for him, you ever thought of that?”

Right then, I had one of my ‘what the fuck did I just say?!’ moments. Those kinds of moments where you just want throw your hands over your mouth with your eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Ivan studied me for what seemed like hours, finally whispering, “Very headstrong girl, I thought Peter would have taught you differently, you see, back in Russia he was rather promiscuous, I’m positive he wouldn’t give you a second thought if it weren’t for your…awkward charms.”

Awkward charms? Was I a lost dog or something? And the whole ‘Peter should have taught me better’ subject was creepy, like I was in one of those bondage films and Peter was my leather-clad master with the whip and everything.

“Could you just leave me alone so I can take a shower?” I said, fed up with his scrutiny.

“Of course, darashya,” he smirked.

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped, my fists clenched.

“Why? Because Peter calls you that? Is it his little pet name for you? Are you his darashya?” he teased, his eyes cold, just waiting for me to break down.

Before I could respond, I heard the front door open and Peter shouted in Russian, causing Ivan to roll his eyes and snap back, raising his voice. Peter stormed into the room, his face as still and as hard as stone. I couldn’t help but take a step from him as he closed the door, afraid of what might be causing him anger.

“What did you say to her, Ivan?” Peter demanded, his eyes blazing.

Ivan smirked and muttered a Russian response.

“I would appreciate it if you spoke in English in front of Jane, you know she cannot speak Russian and barely understand,” Peter whispered, exasperated.

“Jane and I were merely talking; you object to this?” Ivan said innocently. He glared at Peter, as if he was trying to convey something to him with his blazing eyes.

“Just leave, I will be at the hotel later,” Peter said, his voice calmer, but still maintaining a hostile edge.

“Don’t be late or father will go crazy,” Ivan warned before leaving. Upon hearing the front door shut, Peter turned on me, muttering coolly, “Could you try and cover up before you go talking to my brother? He was practically drooling over you.”

This caused me to straighten up and little, affronted, and say, “Well sorry I didn't get a chance to in that gap of time between when I woke up and when your brother came storming into the room throwing insults at me…oh wait there was none.”

Peter let out a long sigh and instantly molded into ‘loving, protective, and sometimes humorous boyfriend’ Peter. In my mind, there were four types of Peters: ‘work-crazed’ Peter, where he needed to get work done or the world was going to implode, ‘extremely pissed off but hopefully not towards me’ Peter, he usually wasn’t pissed off at me and if he was his voice went really low and he almost turned into ‘pensive’ Peter, which could totally be a comic strip just because he starts talking about the most intellectual and deep crap that I can’t help but start making fun of him in my mind. And, as I described before, there is ‘boyfriend’ Peter. This is my usual take of him.

“I didn't mean that darashya it’s not your fault,” he purred, his arms encasing me. I felt him pull me against his chest, his hands rubbing my back soothingly.

“Do I have awkward charms?” I asked, propping my chin on his chest so I could look up at him.

“I assure you that you have your charms…” he murmured, kissing my forehead, “But I don’t know about awkward?”

“Ivan said you’d dump me if it weren’t for my awkward charms” I explained as he stroked my hair.

“That’s not true, Janey,” he said, “You know better than to listen to my brother.”

I sighed and rested my head against his chest, closing my eyes once more. “Someone’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“Yeah and I remember that she specifically told you she doesn’t want to celebrate,” I mumbled, moving away from him and into the bathroom.

“Darashya…you’re turning 21…that’s legal drinking age right? Don’t you want to try my vodka?” he smirked, following me into the bathroom, standing behind me as I brushed my teeth in the mirror.

“No demon vodka for me thanks,” I muttered, spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing.

He laughed and kissed the back of my neck, “Just let me take you out tomorrow, my treat.”

“Peter, FYI, it’s always your treat and I’m working late tomorrow, so I can’t go out,” I mumbled, taking off my shirt.

“You owe me some type of celebration then, you know that, right?” he said, kissing me.

“Maybe…” I said, crossing my arms, “But now I have to take a shower.”

“Alright,” he whispered, taking off his shirt, revealing his perfectly muscled chest, “Room for one more?”

“Well we have this huge-o shower stall and Jacuzzi tub which could probably fit around 7 people in each…” I said, but before I could finish, Peter’s arms were around me.

“I love you, my sweet,” he said, leaning in and kissing my neck.

“But I need to be at work in 2 hours…” I protested feebly as we moved closer to the shower.

“I assure you darashya…you will not be late,” he chuckled, reaching out and turning the shower on. His lips met mine, pulling me closer.

----------------------------

“Someone looks well rested,” Rachel commented as I walked into the kitchen stretching my arms and back.

“Yeah I guess,” I heaved a sigh and threw on my apron. I worked as a pastry chef at a four-star French restaurant, Christophe’s, named after the hot-headed owner, Christophe D'Evereux. Getting the job was sort of an accident actually. Since I have no college degree I always thought I was ill-equipped for a job that would actually take me somewhere. When I first moved to the city I had a lot of trial and error when it came to work. I didn't go to college because I was near broke and barely paying rent. I had always loved to cook, especially desserts because I myself have a huge sweet tooth. So I would enter various baking competitions and sometimes receive a cash prize. The money went towards baking ingredients and such.

After about two months of living in New York (before I met Peter) I was invited to enter into this baking contest where top chefs and restaurant owners from around the city would be the judges and there would be an 8,000 dollar cash prize. I almost fainted at the thought of winning so much money. But I didn't have much time to celebrate because the deadline was next week. I searched through my various cookbooks day and night until I finally find my piece de resistance: Delice Napoleon cake. It was basically this huge pastry with vanilla cream, chocolate sponge cake, rhum syrup, and a sprinkling of power sugar. If baked correctly, it could cause taste buds to tingle and mouths to water. I just hoped my cake could have the desired effect on the judges.

The day came and with the help of my neighbor Val, we got the cake to its stand on time. The minute I got there I felt the saddening crash of defeat. Everyone here was way more experienced than I was. They had probably traveled around the world and had been to the most prestigious culinary schools. I learned how to bake in my mama’s kitchen.

At judging, I could feel my stomach flipping over and over in nervousness and a huge lump rising in my throat.

Well, I didn't win, but I made it to second runner-up, which was a 1,000 cash prize, which I could live with. Before I could start walking home, I heard a loud cough from behind me. I turned to around to see a man in a dark suit, a cigarette between his fingers. He looked like on of those struggling artists in his mid-30’s.

“You are the girl that made the Delice Napoleon cake?” he asked, with a hint of a French accent.

I nodded, my hands twisting and untwisting nervously behind my back.

“I am Christophe D’Evereux, owner of the Christophe restaurant,” he said, holding out his hand.

"Really creative with the name," I thought, shaking his hand.

“I am utterly shocked that you didn't win, I thought the decision was obvious after we sampled your heavenly confection, I must know, who taught you to bake with such care and precision?” he questioned.

“My mom?” I replied unsurely.

After scoffing at my immaturity, he offered me the position as pastry chef, not even caring that the farthest I had gone with culinary education was home economics and I had no plans to go to college.

“You know Christophe cut everyone’s pay?” she said, her voice saturated with irony, “Oh wait, you have a rich-ass boyfriend so you don’t care…Jane I don’t even know why you stay here when Peter can basically give you whatever you want for the rest of your life.”

“I love my job, that’s why, well maybe not Christophe all of the time, but most of it is pretty satisfying,” I sighed walking into the kitchen, running my fingers along the stainless steel countertops.

“The only reason you got this job is because you’re a fucking prodigy, seriously I bet if I went digging through that garbage can that’s filled with your scraps we could feed it to the customers and they wouldn’t know the difference because they were touched by ‘your’ hands,” she said dramatically, ringing her hands.

“I’m just lucky,” I mumbled, looking around to make sure everything was in order.

“So how’re things with you and Peter?” she asked, checking her nail beds.

“Where is everyone we’re supposed to open in half an hour,” I said, frustrated.

“Jane are there problems with you and Peter?” she exclaimed, her voice more excited than disappointed. She straightened up, her brown eyes boring into mine expectantly.

“No, sorry to upset you, but there is something that’s worrying me,” I mumbled, turning around and leaning against the counters.

“What?” she asked, her voice serious.

“He’s too good to be true…” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the floor