I unraveled her life detail by detail, reshaping it into something sharp and defined in my mind. Twenty-seven, born and raised in this town, owner of the café her mother built when she was a child. A sister, younger and vulnerable, with the kind of medical file that swallows savings and sleep. A father who disappeared when Sage was small, then turned up dead years later. Paper trails that thin out where the story should have become clear.
She moves through the café as if it were an extension of her body. Her honey-blonde hair is twisted into a loose knot that allows stray strands to escape. They might look sweet on someone else, but her blue eyes do not waiver, refusing to give ground. She is not fragile. Her shoulders carry it. Her hands shape it. Every movement at the machine, the register, with the customers, and the young employee at her side, hints at a strength that won’t break easily.
She refuses to look at me, though her body gives her away. Her shoulders tighten when my gaze finds her, and her mouth hardens. When she turns to the pastry case, the muscle in her jaw ticks once before she smooths it away. She feels me even when she pretends not to.
Vega betrays me once again without any shame. He rises, stretches, and crosses the floor, ignoring boundaries. He positions himself at her feet and lowers his head against her calf, closing his eyes like a penitent knight. I should whistle him back, but I don’t. Instead, I watch.
Her fingers slide into his coat, and he melts as if the bones have left his body. She speaks to him in a tone that belongs to quiet kitchens and safe living rooms, then reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a biscuit. He takes it with care, his teeth gentle, and his tail thumps against the baseboard twice before he goes still again. The way she looks at him steals something from me that I prefer to keep.
When the crowd thins, I lift a hand and the young employee with the careful braid approaches, her notebook already open.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
“Americano,” I say. I point where I want it placed. “Here.”
She glances toward Sage without meaning to, then nods and moves away. I wait. I can wait all day. Patience is easier to learn when punishment for impatience is paid in blood.
Sage prepares the drink herself. She could hand the task off, but she doesn’t. The hiss from the machine fills the room. She pours, wipes a drip from the saucer with her thumb, then picks up the cup and brings it to my table like a challenge she intends to win.
“Your Americano.”
Our fingers meet at the rim. It’s nothing, yet it’s everything. Heat travels from skin to nerve, and the jolt is clean enough to steal one breath and make the next arrive too hard. Her mouth parts, her body informing her that something just happened that requires a reaction. She withdraws first.
“Thank you,” I reply, and it sounds like civility when it’s not.
“You’re welcome,” she answers, and it sounds like a dismissal when it’s not.
I follow the line of her throat to where tension lives, then allow my eyes to return to hers. Her gaze doesn’t drop or waver. There’s only that stubborn line of a woman who has carried more than she should and learned how to hold it without bending.
“You have a very loyal dog,” she says. The politeness tastes of vinegar. “He keeps returning to the scene of his crime.”
“He has useful instincts.”
“For knocking people down?”
“For choosing people,” I mutter darkly.
Her long lashes lower, then lift. There is the smallest pause before she steps back. Her apron has a faint coffee stain near the pocket. Her hair has worked loose again, and a strand curves along her cheek. I could reach out, tuck it behind her ear, and feel the tremor in her skin. I do nothing.
“Enjoy your drink,” she says. “If you decide to drink it.”
“I’m still deciding,” I tell her.
She turns away and returns to her world. I let my hand rest near the saucer. Vega abandons her side only when she turns away, padding after her as if she carries the authority of command, before circling back to me and lowering himself at my feet. Even my dog seems torn, and the thought unsettles me more than I care to admit.
Tourists stream in, shaking rain from their hoods, gratitude on their faces at the promise of warmth. A trio of local women settles near the front window, the one with the view of slick streets and umbrellas. The older woman in the corner works on a crossword puzzle in blue pen that clicks in a repetitive pattern. Men who pretend to be rugged peel bills from money clips and order drinks that require long instructions.
A man I recognize for the wrong reason steps through the door and sheds a jacket that is too clean for any trail. I saw him yesterday in this same café, not by accident. He chose a line near the pastry case where he could lean and look lazy while his eyes did work. He has the smile of a salesman and the stride of someone who can run when he needs to.
I don’t move. It’s unnecessary. Albert is two tables across from me near the door, quiet as a storm held in place by a sky that hasn’t torn open yet. At six and a half feet, with a shaved head and arms inked in black lines that crawl out from under his collar, he is impossible to miss and yet most people never notice him. That’s his gift. He grew up in Brighton Beach, raised in the streets until my father’s network took him in. Violence shaped him into the kind of man who doesn’t need to announce himself, because anyone who has seen him work does the announcing for him. He rarely speaks, but when he does, there is always a trace of dry humor under the menace, as if he sees the world as one long joke, and only he knows the punchline.
Kolya sits near the magazine rack pretending to read an article about the best day hikes. Lean where Albert is massive, his angular features are framed by dark hair tucked under a cap. He has eyes the color of steel with hints of green that miss nothing. He used to burn rubber on Los Angeles freeways, a street racer who thought speed would outrun debt until the Bratva showed him otherwise. Now he’s mine. He drives better than anyone I’ve ever seen and has pulled us out of more than one trap with a wheel in one hand and a gun in the other. Restless, sarcastic, and always armed, Kolya is the opposite of Albert’s silence, but their loyalty is the same.
Neither Albert nor Kolya glances at me.
The man orders a latte and tries to draw Sage into a conversation that wants to be longer than coffee requires. He smiles. He shows teeth. He makes a comment about mountain vistas and the sort of property that looks better once you own it. Her answers remain polite and indistinct. She nods once, twice, and slides the drink across the counter with the firm finality of a woman who can close a door without ever touching a handle.
“Enjoy your day,” she tells him.
