“Hungry?” His breath tickles my ear, and when did he get so close? His chest nearly touches my back, and I can feel the vibration of his words.
“For food,” I clarify, “Just. Food.”
For now.
His low chuckle makes things clench that have no business clenching in public. “Of course,kiska. Just food.”
25
Clara
My eyebrows lift as I take in the scene.
I blink, adjusting to the dim interior. Dark wooden tables dot the room, each covered with embroidered cloths in deep reds and golds. Along the walls, cushioned benches stretch beneath rows of framed photographs—faces that could be anyone’s grandmother or grandfather back in their motherland. A long counter dominates the right, its surface scattered with tin tea glasses in traditional ornate style, made from materials like silver.
A deep male voice croons in Russian from hidden speakers, the melody somehow both melancholic and warm. Behind the counter, a massive brass samovar commands attention like a throne, steam rising from its spout. The air is thick with the smell of dill and sour cream.
Three couples by the window freeze, forks suspended over plates of stroganoff. In the corner, a chess game sits forgotten,the players too busy staring at us to notice their timer’s still running. Lace curtains filter the afternoon sun, and the whole place smells of the rich warmth of slow-cooked meat.
“Lyonya!”
A silver-haired woman materializes from behind the counter, moving faster than anyone her age has any right to. She’s tiny—barely reaching Leonid’s chest—but the way she barrels toward him with open arms makes me think of those nature documentaries where mama bears charge at things three times their size.
Leonid actuallysoftens.
Holy shit. His shoulders drop a fraction, and that murder-strut loosens into something almost human. The woman reaches up, patting his cheeks like he’s six instead of… whatever terrifying age dangerous men with criminal empires turn.
“Still too skinny,” she scolds in accented English, and I nearly choke. The Henley stretching across his chest begs to differ.
I can’t help but stare. The most feared man in the city stands here with his hands awkwardly at his sides, like he can’t decide whether to hug her or run. The way he ducks his head when she reaches up to straighten his collar—Christ, he’s practically shrinking to let her fuss. His usual prowling grace is replaced by something almost boyish, something that makes my chest do weird things. It’s like watching a tiger turn into a housecat under grandma’s scratches.
Note to self:Cute is dangerous on him. Very, very dangerous.
Movement behind the counter catches my eye—another figure emerging from the kitchen’s steam. Before I can focus on him, the tiny woman’s gaze locks onto me like a heat-seeking missile.
“And who is this?”
“I’m…”
“Tyo-tyaGalina—” Leonid starts, a warning note in his voice that she completely ignores.
“A… pretty girl.” Galina’s gaze sweeps over me; those eyes might be warm, but they miss nothing. Slow and deliberate, from the top of my head to my toes. She arches an eyebrow, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smirk.
“But those slippers!” She points at my feet like they’ve personally offended her. “Lyonya, you bring her here dressed like a hospital patient?”
I bite back a laugh. “Actually—”
“Sit, sit!” She waves us toward a corner booth. “Ivan! Bring the good vodka!”
A tall man behind the counter—probably Ivan—just nods, already pulling out a frosted bottle. The familiarity of it hits me—they know exactly which vodka ishisvodka.
“I don’t need—” Leonid tries again.
“Nonsense. Growing boy needs feeding.” She pats his cheek once more. “Still remember when you were this high, stealingpirozhkifrom my kitchen window.”
Oh, really?I sink into the heavy wooden chair he pulls out, tucking this little nugget away. Baby criminal Leonid, climbing through windows for pastries? That’s… surprisingly adorable.
“Tyo-tyaGalina.” His voice carries that don’t-fuck-with-me tone that makes grown men wet themselves. She just tsks and pats his arm.
