Ivan sits at the head of the table, and for a second, his expression lightens when he sees me.
It fades when an older man with silver hair and a face like granite points at me and shouts in Russian. The words are clearly harsh, even if I can’t understand them.
"English," Ivan commands. "Show respect to my woman."
The silver-haired man switches to English, his accent thick but clear. "You see?" He gestures at me like I'm evidence in a trial. "This is what he chooses! This is what he risks everything for!"
Every eye in the room is on me, scrutinizing the baggy shirt, messy hair, and, more importantly, my barefooted, frenzied entrance.
I take a step back. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed in my bedroom.
Another man speaks up, younger but equally cold. "Mysister is much more fitting. She has skills a Pakhan needs, Petrov. Intelligence. Knows how to keep her mouth shut. Speaks Russian, for God's sake." He pauses to look at me with disdain. "Not just making coffee."
Making coffee. Right. Because that's all I am in their eyes. The waitress. A nobody who serves drinks and looks decorative.
I glance at Ivan, who’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, like he wants to be literally anywhere else.
Does he regret everything—the protection, the claiming, the choice to keep me when any sane man would have sent me away? Does he wish I had skills beyond pouring drinks and drawing pictures he'll never see?
But in the meantime, coffee? I can do that. I can prove I'm useful and charming. Years of schmoozing for tips have taught me a thing or two about winning over a tough crowd.
I turn and head for the kitchen before I can overthink it more, only stopping to dip behind a closet door and hide from Pyotr when I hear him thudding down the hall in a frantic search for me. I doubt he’ll go to Ivan first—he’d get in too much trouble. If I’m careful, I’ll have just enough time.
When he’s out of sight again, I continue on. The kitchen is pristine, filled with stainless steel and expensive appliances I don't know how to use. But a coffee maker is a coffee maker, right? Even rich Russian mobsters need caffeine.
I find the machine and start the motions, figuring it out as I go along.
Beans in the grinder.
Water in the reservoir.
Press this button?
Nope, not that one.Fuck.
Christ, I’m a terrible barista. Why can’t he own a simple coffeepot?
With a few more frustrating taps, the machine hisses andspits, and I realize I've overfilled something. Coffee grounds spill across the pristine counter. I grab a towel and wipe frantically.
It’s okay. I can do this. I've made thousands of cups of coffee. This is my thing. My one marketable skill, apparently.
After a pep talk and trial and error, I fill a tray with cups—eight of them, steam rising, none of them spilled, which is a miracle in itself—and carry it back to the dining area.
The men are still arguing, voices raised, mixing Russian and English in ways I can't follow. I approach the table, my serving mask in place. Polite. Efficient. Here to please.
I set a cup in front of the first man, who doesn't look at me. Good.
Next man. Also ignoring me. Better.
I work my way around the table. My hands are steadier now. I can do this. Just serve the coffee and disappear back to my room.
The silver-haired man is last. I approach him carefully, the cup hot in my hands, focusing on not spilling, not messing up, not proving everyone right about me being useless.
Of course his chair is too close to the table, so I have to reach over him at an awkward angle. He shifts unexpectedly, and the cup tilts.
Hot coffee splashes over his lap, soaking into his expensive white suit. He roars, jumping up, Russian curses pouring out. The liquid bleeds across the pristine fabric.
Oh my God.
