Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(2)

But my stomach won’t be so easily distracted.

Once it gets dark, I find myself walking in a trance towards the restaurant. I tell myself along the way that buying a pizza isn’t the worst idea in the world. There’re eight slices to a pie, so if I eat two and two-thirds pieces every day for the next three days, I can live off that one pizza until I get my apartment.

Brilliant. Fiscally responsible, too.

Therefore, let there be pizza.

The restaurant is mostly empty when I walk inside. I can hear the hubbub of activity in the kitchen, but the only other person in the main dining area is a pale, reedy ma?tre d’ with a thin mustache.

He regards me with a sneer that makes me feel like I’m two inches tall. “Can I help you, madam?”

I swear he’s doing a faint, arrogant French accent, although that might just be my hunger playing tricks on me. “I’d like a… a pizza, please. I mean, a table. So I can order a pizza.”

That’s what normal people do, right? They sit at tables to order food?

Jesus H., I’m a couple days into homelessness and already forgetting how the world operates.

He sweeps his watery eyes up and down me. I’m dressed normally—again, not to belabor the point, but it’s only been two days into this nightmare—and yet I feel like he can see the invisible grime plastered all over me. Broke. Homeless. Desperate.

I shake my head. I need to focus on the goal here: pizza.

“Very well. This way, ma’am,” he drawls. He tucks a menu under his arm and stalks away with a stiff neck and his chin thrust high into the air like a shark fin.

Every other table is empty, but he still seats me at the worst one, an unstable two-top right by the kitchen doors. He thrusts the menu into my hands. “I will be back to take your order shortly.” Then he turns and walks away.

He’s a douche, but I forget about him the moment I’m gone. I’m too busy drooling from the first line I read.

Herb-infused dough fired to perfection over open flame in our handmade brick oven. Strands of silky mozzarella draped over a ripe, decadently rich marinara sauce, still simmering with the charcoal smoke of the fires. Sundried tomatoes and fresh goat cheese form a smooth, tangy blend that accentuates the umami sizzle of our house-prepared pepperoni, and a mist of truffle oil adds layers of sumptuousness to delight the palate.

Great God Almighty, I’m hungry.

I flick my eyes up and see the ma?tre d’ watching me salivate. I feel guilty, like he’s catching me looking at porn in public, but I can’t help how literally turned-on I get at the thought of a pizza and a glass of cabernet.

Safe to say I’ve had better days.

I read the menu front to back twice, then close it with a sigh. My stomach is screaming at me and my hands are shaking.

The ma?tre d’ marches back over. “Well?” he says haughtily.

“I’ll take a… pepperoni pizza,” I whisper. “Please.”

He nods crisply and disappears through the swinging kitchen doors. I stroke the spine of the menu like it’ll let me taste some of the dishes I can’t allow myself to order. Pollo e funghi and sorrentina and Prince Edward Island mussels and focaccia bread drizzled in rosemary olive oil…

I shake my head and sigh again. I’m doing that a lot lately, like some melodramatic damsel in distress.

I’m in distress, yes, but I’m no damsel. I can’t afford to be.

This world is way too cruel to women who wait for men to save them.

A few minutes later, the kitchen doors burst back open and my new best friend stalks through. Again, I’m pretty sure this is just a hallucination, a cruel trick of my calorie-starved brain, but I could swear the light of heaven is shining down on the pizza he’s bearing in his hand and a chorus of holy angels is oohing and ahhing at his every step.

He drops it in front of me with a not-particularly-subtle sneer, but I couldn’t care less—matter of fact, I could plop a juicy kiss right on his thin, peeling lips; that’s how grateful I am.

Before he’s made it two steps away, I’m already two bites deep. Marinara smears on my cheek where the third bite misses my mouth a bit, but the taste of hot mozzarella hitting my tongue is like an orgasm

for my taste buds.

I moan—literally, not figuratively. It’s loud enough for the ma?tre d’, who’s resumed his vantage point at the front of the restaurant, to turn and give me a nasty glare.

I just smile back with a mouthful of cheese.

The fourth bite is as good as the first three, and the fifth is even better than that. My whole body unclenches as I go to town like a starving racoon.

It’s only when I’m on the verge of picking up the plate to lick up the crumbs that I remember my whole

“spread it out over three days” plan. As soon as I do, I’m hit with a wave of nauseous guilt that’s almost as bad as the hunger was.

Fuck.

Okay, Paige, I counsel myself, just breathe. This is all fine. It’s gonna all be fine. You have a full belly now—well, sort of—so you can think clearly, and you’ll solve this. You made it through losing Clara, and you loved her, so you can definitely make it through losing Anthony, because he was a piece of shit and you’re better off without him.

Weirdly enough, that little pep talk actually does the job. All credit goes to the pizza—cheese really does work miracles.