Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 248926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1245(@200wpm)___ 996(@250wpm)___ 830(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 248926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1245(@200wpm)___ 996(@250wpm)___ 830(@300wpm)
“Yes, sir.” He headed off and began rummaging around the space.
Paolo raised his hand.
I quirked my brows. “Yes?”
“Train wreck?”
Shock hit me. “That is correct, Paolo. We are making my famous Siberian Train Wreck. I. . .came up with this sandwich. . .when your father and I were kids.”
My heart ached.
You made a train wreck sandwich for him, Pavel?
I made sure to not let the sadness show up on my face. “You are a very observant little kid.”
Paolo put his view back on the knife.
“But, back to my mother’s bear paw stew.” I leaned against the counter and smiled. “This is a really exotic Siberian dish.”
My man hurried over with some of the items I had requested—bread, mayonnaise, horseradish, large slabs of cooked lamb. After placing them on the table, he rushed away.
I raised both hands in the air. “First the bear paws are marinated.”
Paolo looked at me.
“You must understand that a bear’s paws are tough meat.”
Paolo opened his mouth.
“Then, she fried and stewed them for a long time.” I lowered my hands. “My mother claimed that it had to be eaten hot and right out of the pot.”
Paolo twisted his face in disgust.
I chuckled. “It was not a dish for the faint of heart. However, your father and I always asked for second servings.”
Wassily and my men finally got the televisions working. Each screen showed various shows and commercials.
“Wassily, make sure they are on the news and then mute them.” I grabbed a loaf of bread and returned to talking to the boy. “We must cut these in half for our special surprise for mysh.”
Paolo’s face brightened. “Mysh.”
“No. No.” I gave him a stern look. “Only I call her that. You are to say Emily.”
He nodded. “Emily.”
“Mysh is my name for her.”
“Emily.”
“Perfect.” I gestured for him to get closer. “Come. Let me show you.”
My man brought over more ingredients.
Paolo scooted over with the knife still in his hands.
“Get a loaf and follow what I am doing.” I took my time slicing through my loaf. “My mother told me that every man—no matter his wealth or status—must have at least five dishes that he can make on his own.”
Paolo put the knife down and picked up the bread. The loaf fumbled in his little hands, but he gained control and picked up the knife.
“Mother taught me how to make bear paw stew.” My heart ached. “She told me to make it for my new wife on the first night of our honeymoon.”
I chuckled. “Do you think our mouse would like such a dish?”
Paolo quickly shook his head.
I frowned. “Hmmm.”
Paolo carefully cut some of the loaf. While he didn’t make a perfectly straight line, he had come close.
My man carried over the last of the ingredients. “Should I do something else sir?”
“Not now.” I grabbed another loaf, sliced it, and switched back to Russian for Paolo. “Mother also taught me Pelmeni.”
“Dumplings.” Paolo smiled and continued to jaggedly cut through his loaf.
“That’s right. They are dumplings.”
I smirked.
You cooked that for him too, Pavel?
The ceiling lights blinked in the room.
My men gazed up.
Wassily shook his head. “I will get the manager to come and check on these lights—”
“No.” I waved him away. “Leave it. Perhaps, there are other things going on besides the hotel’s wiring.”
Wassily gave me an odd look. “O-kay, sir.”
I returned to Paolo. “There is a great debate in Russia on where pelmeni originated from. Some say Ural. Others say Siberia.”
Paolo finished cutting the bread and separated the halves.
“I have seen men killed over this very topic.” I cut one more loaf. “In fact, if a man stood in my presence and said that pelmeni was a Ural dish. . .”
Paolo stared at me.
“Well. . .it would not be a good day for him.”
I caught a headline slide over one of the screens and pointed. “Wassily, turn the television up.”
Bobbing his head, he picked up one of the many remotes in front of him and pressed a button.
Without needing me to tell him, Paolo grabbed a bowl and began spooning mayonnaise and horseradish into it.
How many times did you make my sandwich for him, Pavel?
The ceiling lights blinked.
I tensed.
Are you really near us?
The television’s volume rose, disrupting my thoughts on Pavel’s ghost.
“Good afternoon, I am Nicole Palmer with breaking news.” The woman directed a stern expression to the screen. “Russia surprised the world today, by changing the coordinates of one of its top nuclear missiles, named the Tsar Bomba.”
I grinned.
A map of Nigeria appeared on the screen.
“U.K. military tracking systems picked up the shift in the missile’s target, reporting that the Tsar Bomba was aimed directly at Nigeria’s federal capital, Abuja.”
Paolo mixed the mayonnaise and horseradish together.
“Good boy.” I patted his back and returned my attention to the screen.
Footage of people hurrying away in Abuja played on the screen.
“All in Abuja and surrounding areas are on high alert.” The news woman continued. “Within this hour, government buildings, places of worship, and schools are presently being evacuated due to this possible threat.”