Chapter 11

I didn't see Petter for ten days after that. We were too busy with the shipment coming in from Turkey. Once it was divided up between the Mobsters and the Family, there was plenty of work to do getting it distributed. Stefan was delighted to be involved in that operation, although I knew he'd try to fleece me by skimming some off the top and selling it himself. He always did. I paired him up with Christian, and told the pair of them I'd pay them well but if they cheated me, they'd get nothing.

I was irritable and impatient to get it done, not least because I was frustrated from jerking off alone. I'd wanted to get the business out of the way before I saw Petter again, and apparently he was of the same opinion, but now I was sick of waiting. I intended to call him that evening, and in the meantime I sat at the restaurant bar sipping a glass of wine and trying to relax.

Suddenly, my phone rang and when I checked the screen, it was Petter's number. My heart began to race, and I counted three rings before I answered, rather than connect immediately as if I'd been holding the phone waiting for him to call.

"Yes."

"It's—"

"I know," I interrupted. My mother wandered past me with a tray of coffees balanced on one hand and glanced at me curiously. I realised I was grinning and straightened my face.

"What are you doing?" Petter asked.

"Drinking wine. You?"

"I was thinking about heading out." That was about as close as he would get to asking to see me.

"Okay. I'll be at, uh—" I paused and glanced around me, but no one was in hearing distance now. Then I checked my watch. "At the apartment in about an hour." The hell with waiting until the evening.

"Right. I'll see you." He hung up.

"Bye," I replied to the dead phone.

"Who was that?" Dubravka reappeared beside me.

"A friend."

"Lady-friend?" Her eyes twinkled.

"It's early days."

"It's about time you met someone, Davor. Blanka's going to beat you to the altar at this rate."

"I'm not in any hurry to tie myself down." I was sick of this conversation. She started it every few months. When are you going to bring a girl home, Davor? When are you going to settle down?

"You're nearly thirty-one. It's time you were thinking about settling down and having a family."

I sighed. "Mother, we've talked about this. I like things the way they are. A few dates here and there."

"Well, you looked happy when your phone rang. At least tell me her name."

"Um—" All I could think of for a moment was Petter's name. Petter Hill. "Hilde."

"Do you have a picture?" she asked hopefully.

"No."

"A description, then?"

I groaned. "I don't know. Sort of light brown hair, dark blond, I guess. Grey-blue eyes."

"Is she Swedish?"

"Yes."

"How old is she?"

Blanka appeared at my other side, smiling. "Does Davor have a girlfriend?"

"Hell, not you, too." I rolled my eyes. "Not really. It's casual."

"She's called Hilde," Dubravka said, beaming.

Blanka frowned. "I don't know anyone called Hilde. Where did you meet her?"

"In a bar. Will you two leave me alone? It's not serious, nor is it likely to be." I got up and stalked off upstairs, leaving a trail of giggles behind me. Fifteen minutes later, I left the restaurant and drove to my apartment. Thank God they didn't know about it. It was leased under one of my fake IDs that I kept a secret, too, so they weren't likely to find out about it.

I stared out of the window at the street while I waited for Petter to arrive, and eventually, I saw him park his motorcycle at the end of the block and walk towards the building. He kept his helmet, dark glasses, and scarf on, obscuring his face, and he carried an enormous backpack. I buzzed him in and waited impatiently for him to get to my door. He stepped in, dumped the backpack, and removed his helmet and glasses.

"What's in there?" I indicated the backpack. "Dead body?"

He snorted. "Bike gear. I thought we'd go for a ride." He opened the backpack and pulled out a leather jacket, clearly brand new.

"I'm not a biker." I frowned.

"You don't have to ride, you sit on the pillion."

I hesitated. I was a shirt and suit guy. I travelled by car, and more often than not had a driver. Markus had been like me—he liked fine dining, and wines, and going to the theatre. And clubbing. I grimaced at that thought, and realised Petter would probably think I was making a face at the idea of going out on his motorcycle.

He looked uncertain. "Well, you don't have to. It was just an idea."

Feeling like a bit of a heel, I took the jacket from him. "How do you know this will fit me?"

"I've had my hands all over your body, Davor, I think I can guess your size." He smiled a little. "It's cold out there. A suit won't cut it."

"All right." I checked what else was in the backpack—a heavy sweater, leather pants, boots, gloves, helmet, and scarf. "Did you buy all this stuff?"

"Well, I didn't think Monica's would fit you." He grinned more, eyes twinkling. "Are you up for this, then?"

"Why not? I don't often do anything fun."

Petter beamed. "Hurry up and get changed. I thought we could get out of the city. Go and have something to eat somewhere nobody knows us."

I tossed my suit jacket onto the back of the couch and picked up the thick blue sweater. Five minutes later, I had all the gear on. Other than the boots being a size too big for my feet, everything fitted fine. I glanced at myself in the mirror and laughed. I actually looked the part. A prickle of excitement ran through me as we descended to street level and walked to Petter's bike. I already had the helmet and scarf on, hiding my face.

I did as he told me and sat on the back seat of the bike, which was a big heavy cruiser, comfortable for two people to ride a long distance on. When he started the engine, I wrapped my arms around his waist and held tight. I didn't ask him where he intended to take me. I didn't care. I never did anything like this, and it seemed like a big adventure. After two minutes, I already loved it.

We left Stockholm and travelled north to Uppsala, which took about an hour. Petter turned the bike into the centre of the city and rolled along slowly, gazing left and right as if looking for something. Eventually, we pulled up outside a pizzeria and he cut the engine. He pulled off his helmet and turned his head.

"Is this okay? We can't go to the sort of restaurant you're probably used to, looking like a pair of thugs."

I removed my helmet and scarf, and grinned. "You think I'm a snob that only likes fancy restaurants?"

"I think you're better than me," he said, not smiling.

"Don't be so serious. This is fine. I'm having a good time." I paused, then went on. "Just because I was brought up to appreciate fine things, doesn't mean I'm any better than you, and it doesn't mean I won't enjoy going anywhere you want to go." I took a quick look around. The street was empty. I leaned closer and brushed my lips across his cheek. "Let's eat. I'm starving."

He relaxed and smiled. "I picked this place because it's run by two guys who are together. They won't care about us."

We got off the bike and headed into the restaurant. We were immediately greeted by an extremely effeminate man.

"Table for two?"

"Yes, please," Petter said. "I didn't book."

"That's no problem, we have plenty of free tables at this time of day. Would you like to sit by the windows, or do you prefer a more secluded spot?"

I pointed towards the back of the restaurant, where a table partly hidden by a partition and a huge indoor plant could be seen.

"Certainly, Sirs, come this way." He took us to the table which was covered with a plastic tablecloth, gave us a drinks menu and two menus for the food, and hovered, waiting for instructions. We sat opposite each other, and shrugged out of our leather jackets, placing the helmets, gloves, and other accessories on the spare chairs. Petter was wearing a thick green sweater, similar to the one he'd bought for me.

"I'll have a beer," he requested.

I glanced at the menu, which had a few cheaper wines listed, various beers, and spirits. I wasn't a beer-drinker, but not because I didn't like it, only that the Family always drank wine with meals, and usually whiskey or brandy in the evenings. I drank vodka when I went to bars. "Make that two," I said.

The waiter scurried off to fetch the drinks. I picked up the food menu. I wasn't keen on pizza, I found it stodgy. There was a good selection of pastas, however, and I decided to have spaghetti and meatballs. When our drinks arrived, we ordered the food—Petter chose carbonara. The waiter took the menus away and we sipped our beers.

I was uncharacteristically nervous. We were on a date, I realised. We didn't know each other very well, and so far all we'd done was fuck at my apartment. I didn't know how to behave. I'd been on dates with Markus—dinners, the theatre, and so on. I was too worried about being caught to get anywhere near him in Stockholm, but if we ate at his apartment or mine, we held hands across the table, maybe even kissed a little. What should I do with Petter? Anything? I didn't see him as the hand-holding type.

I glanced around and spotted another couple on the other side of the room. They both wore jeans and sweaters and sat side by side. The elder one slid his arm around the younger, and they leaned close together, whispering. The elder one forked up something from his plate and put it in the younger one's mouth.

I turned my attention back to Petter, who was staring at me thoughtfully. "You okay? Is this too much?"

"No. I like it, honestly. I just haven't done much of it." I smiled at him.

"Well, I've never done it."

"We should make the most of it, then." I clinked my glass against his and took another mouthful of beer. When I put the glass down, I placed my hand on the table close enough to brush a finger across his knuckles. He grinned and snagged my finger between his thumb and his index finger. I stroked my thumb over his and traced the shape of the heavy thumb ring he wore. He had his head down, staring at our hands, and I took the opportunity to look at his face. He had long eyelashes, I noticed—light brown like his facial hair. His nose turned up at the end in an innocuously cute way for a gang president. I smiled, and quickly straightened my face when he looked up.

The food arrived twenty minutes' later, and it was delicious. We decided not to have dessert but ordered another beer each. We'd barely spoken since we arrived, and I wondered what we could talk about. Business was out of the question, and sex would only make us horny and impatient to get back. I'd never had to think of conversation with Markus, because I could barely get a word in once he got started. But Petter was as silent and awkward as I was. I wanted to be with him so much, but what hope was there if neither of us could talk?