Careful what you wish for,printsessa. You may not survive it.
I hit send.
Across the café, her phone buzzes against the counter where she left it. She glances down and freezes. Her cheeks drain of color before flushing red, hot and furious. The transformation is instantaneous, like watching someone ignite. Slowly, her gaze lifts, and she directs it straight at me. Not with fear, but a burning fury.
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
The morning crowd continues moving around us, oblivious to the tension that crackles between my corner table and the coffee counter. The older woman turns a page in her book. A businessman in an off-the-rack suit types on his laptop while his breakfast sandwich grows cold. Two mothers discuss their children's school schedules while their toddlers make messes with blueberry muffins.
Normal people living normal lives. They can’t feel the electricity that jumps between Sage and me or sense the way the air seems to thicken when two people size each other up across a room full of strangers.
Vega chooses this moment to betray me, trotting across the wooden floor and planting himself at her feet. His tail thumps once, twice. She stares down at him, then back at me, as though I orchestrated it. The suspicion in her expression almost makes me laugh as if I trained a German shepherd to sidle up to beautiful women.
Traitor. But I let him stay. I want to see how long she will glare at me before she breaks.
My dog has always been an excellent judge of character. When I acquired him years ago from a trainer in Prague, Vega was already fully grown, disciplined, and capable of taking down aman twice my size if given the command. But he is selective with his affections. Most people receive polite tolerance at best. The fact that he approached her yesterday, knocked her off balance, and now seeks her attention again tells me something my logical mind wants to dismiss.
Animals sense what humans miss. They read energy, intention, and compatibility in ways that bypass rational thought. When my mother was dying, Vega would lie at her bedside for hours, as if he could absorb her pain through proximity. When rivals approach with smiles and false friendships, he grows tense, his hackles rising in warning. His instincts have never been wrong.
Sage’s lips part, the faintest shape of a word forming, but she swallows it back when a customer interrupts with a request for scones. She serves them without tearing her gaze from mine. This girl is brave. Or reckless.
The customer is a woman in her fifties wearing hiking boots and a fleece jacket that screams tourist. She wants to know about gluten-free options and whether the scones are made locally. Sage answers her questions with seasoned patience, while Vega sits at her feet as if he has always been there. The normalcy of the interaction jars against the undercurrent of tension between us, making the entire scene feel surreal.
I study her movements as she works. Every gesture is economical, learned through repetition. She knows exactly how long to steam milk, precisely when to pull an espresso shot, and which pastries to recommend to which customers. This café isn’t just her job. It’s her expertise. She built her life around this place the same way I built mine around power and control.
The difference is that her world depends on trust, on customers believing in her competence and kindness. Mine relies on fear,on enemies knowing I will destroy them before they can touch what belongs to me. She creates; I eliminate. She nurtures; I dominate. Yet here we are, orbiting each other across a room that smells like vanilla and coffee beans.
Misha once told me women from towns like this are soft. That they smile for everyone, trust too easily, and believe the world is built on kindness. But this one doesn’t. She serves her coffee, yes, but there is fire beneath her freckles. I observed it when I demanded her phone yesterday, and she hesitated before obeying. I notice it now in the stubborn lift of her chin as she dares me to look away first.
I don’t.
Instead, my memory stirs. My mother's voice, long gone but still sharp in my mind.“Luka, do not mistake silence for weakness. A woman who does not bend is far more dangerous than one who shouts.”
Dasha Barinov had been elegant and graceful, even while cancer ate her alive. She softened the Bratva's jagged edges and made men fear my father while admiring her. At Bratva dinners and business meetings, she could silence a room with a raised eyebrow or command respect with a smile. She understood that true power is often whispered instead of shouted.
Since her death, I have trusted few. Every betrayal since has taught me to suspect coincidence and see traps where others see chance. The Yegorov family, who smiled at my mother's funeral while plotting to steal our Seattle operations. The Gusev cousins, who swore loyalty while selling information to federal agencies. My own second cousin Boris, who tried to convince my father that I lacked the ruthlessness to lead. Each lesson cost blood. Each mistake taught me to question everything and assumedeception until proven otherwise. Which is why I know Sage didn’t stumble into my path without reason.
I should leave. Walk out, call Vega back, and let her disappear into the anonymity she clearly craves. But I stay because something about her unsettles me, and I need to know why.
The bell above the door jingles as a new wave of tourists flood in, their laughter bright and grating. A family with teenagers immediately starts complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi. An older couple want to know if the café has sugar-free syrups and oat milk. A group of women in their thirties order complicated drinks while discussing their weekend plans, which include visiting hot springs and antique shops.
I watch Sage move among them, calm and capable. She belongs to this place, to the crisp mountain air and cinnamon-scented mornings. Yet when she finally circles back toward the counter where her phone lies, she dares another look at me. The flush has faded from her cheeks, but the wariness remains. She knows I’m not a typical customer. Something about my presence disturbs the peace she has built for herself in this small corner of the world.
“Your dog has questionable loyalty,” she mutters, her voice low but clear enough for me to hear.
The words are directed at Vega, but her eyes remain fixed on mine. A challenge wrapped in observation. She wants me to know she isn’t intimidated, even though she should be.
I arch a brow. “Or excellent taste.”
Her eyes narrow and the flush in her cheeks reappears. “You think that's charming?”
“I do not think. I know.”
She huffs, turning away to pour another drink. Her hands move quickly, though the redness still stains her throat. I rattled her. Good. She should know I don’t play games.
The espresso machine hisses as she works, creating the soundtrack that probably fills her days. Steam and grinding beans, and the gentle clink of ceramic against ceramic. Peaceful sounds that belong to a quiet life. The existence my mother might have chosen if she had not fallen in love with a man who commanded the Bratva and collected debts in blood.
Still, when I see Vega lean into her touch as she absently scratches his ear, something hot stirs in my chest. He is rarely this gentle with strangers. At home, he tolerates the household staff but shows affection only to immediate family. His trainer warned me that German shepherds choose their pack carefully, and loyalty cannot be forced or bought.
