I slide into the seat in front of him. “Thank you,” I murmur, staring at the feast in front of me.
“Here,” Matvey says in a clipped tone, handing me a single-sheet menu. “I instructed the chef to avoid anything unsafe for pregnancy, as well as mustard and celery. But you should check just in case.”
I accept the menu with unsteady hands, my mind reeling. It must have taken a lot of work to do something like this. Above all else, that’s what strikes me first: a tremendous amount of care.
My second thought is that I never told him about my allergies.
Deep breaths, April. So the scary mobster’s got his hands on your medical records. So what? He isn’t using them to kill you.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly, still not sure if I’m about to suffer death by Dijon.
According to the menu, the di
