He takes the hint and pivots without protest. His eyes lift to the reflection in the window first, then he turns his head just enough to be certain he has read the room correctly. He leaves quickly. Kolya tosses a look at Albert and follows a heartbeat later.
I feel Vega press his side to my boots. He breathes out through his nose and rests his chin on my shoe. The need to put a hand on him is ridiculous and immediate. I do it anyway. He settles. So do I, but only on the surface.
I’m here because I want to look at her. I’m here because I don’t believe in coincidence. Both things can be true. The man from yesterday may be running errands for a rival. Or maybe he’s in town to keep an eye on ski lots for investors with no idea what monsters truly own land in places like this. Perhaps he’s a test to measure my patience. I treat him as all three until proof insists on a narrower definition.
Sage’s last name lives under my tongue like poison.Bellamy. It carries old business and older grudges. The last time I heard that name, my father was still standing on two good legs, and enemies pretended to be friends. Whether it is coincidence or design, I haven’t decided, but in the Bratva, there are no harmless names, and Bellamy already tastes too familiar to dismiss. Misha is digging. He knows where to look and who to bother. I want facts, not rumors. Until I have them, I will tolerate uncertainty and treat it like an adversary sitting across a table, smiling as if we share the same meal.
My phone hums once against the table, a quiet summons I don’t ignore. I glance at the screen. It’s Misha. Lifting it with unhurried ease, I press it to my ear. “Da?”
“I have threads,” he says. His voice carries the same flat calm whether he’s discussing a menu or a murder. “Not a rope yet.”
“Give me the info,” I demand.
“Sage Bellamy inherited the business three years ago. The mother, Evelyn, died after a long illness. Medical bills on the sister stack high. No red flags in the books, and if there are any, they are tucked well. The father, Thomas, disappeared when Sage was small and is listed dead when she was nine. The record is neat where it should be messy and messy where it should be neat.”
I watch her laugh at something the young employee says. The sound is quick and unguarded, and I feel it along my ribs like a touch applied without permission. I close my eyes for a fraction, and it’s enough to pull a face from a part of my mind that is kept closed. My mother, in a winter garden with dark hair pinned at her nape, breath turning to mist, and green eyes that never once looked away when my father pushed a room into silence.
“Continue,” I instruct.
“Old names circle close to the family,” he adds. “Nothing written down in neat ink, but enough proximity to stir gossip in its time. The town keeps tidy records and untidy memories. A few of the old men at the bar talk as if every bloodline in Aspen Ridge crosses another you’d rather it didn’t.”
“Bellamy,” I murmur.
“The surname moves through our history,” Misha replies. “I’m not declaring anything. I’m underlining a word and asking you to look at it.”
“Keep digging.”
“I already started,” he confirms, and I can hear the brief scrape of a chair on his end, and the sound of a door closing. “The man Kolya is tailing. He just followed him south past the river. The car is clean. Out-of-state plates registered to a rental group that plays nice with two different fronts. We’ll know more this afternoon.”
“Good.” I pause. “And her?”
“Yes,” he says. “You want Sage Bellamy’s file to grow teeth. It will, or it won’t, and I will tell you either way.”
I end the call and let the quiet of the café return. Vega lifts his head and studies my face with eyes that shouldn’t be capable of comprehension but often look like they hold it anyway. I scratch behind his ear, and he relaxes again, satisfied for now.
A family comes in and brings the cold air with them. The children press their faces to the pastry glass and leave fingerprints like smudged constellations. The older woman in the corner changes pens and moves from blue to black ink. The room returns to its steady rhythm, cups lifted and set down, laughter low, and spoons clinking.
I take one sip of the Americano. It’s very good, but it doesn’t soothe the edge inside me that needs sanding. I set the cup down and watch her again.
When the lunch wave softens, I stand. The chair legs scrape, and conversations pull inward for a moment. It happens wherever I go. I approach the counter, and she refuses to retreat.
“You didn’t drink the coffee you ordered,” she comments. “You only sat with it and stared at me until it got cold.”
“I drink when I want to,” I answer.
“Maybe order later then,” she replies. “It would be a shame to waste Alfio’s finest roast just to make a point.”
“You think I am here to make a point.”
“I think you’re here to make many,” she says. “I haven’t decided yet which one annoys me most.”
“Make a list,” I tell her. “We can rank them.”
Her lips curve despite the effort she makes to keep an annoyed appearance. It’s not victory, only the relief of seeing the storm for what it is. She glances at Vega.
“He likes you.”
“He likes pastries,” she answers, but her tone softens when her fingers slide along the top of his head. “And attention.”
