I’ve fucked up. Badly. Obviously.
Katerina’s Hearth isn’t just some hole-in-the-wall Russian joint. It’s my blind spot. My weakness. The one place where there aren’t any security cameras, where my men aren’t lurking in the shadows. Where I’m justLyonya, the kid who used to climb through windows forpirozhki.
Clara’s smiling now, leaning over the table with her fingers tracing the menu as if she’s deciphering a damn code. I watch as her eyes narrow, focused, and her lips move silently, trying to sound out the words. Her mouth twitches, almost like she’s mumbling something, before she flips the menu over, searchingfor a translation. Instead, she’s met with a garish illustration of some Soviet relic—a cartoon bear wielding a balalaika and a bottle of vodka. Her brow furrows, and she flips the menu back, looking up at me with a half-frustrated, half-amused look.
“What’s good here?” she asks, tilting her head.
I repeat the dishes I’d already ordered before they all started giving me shit about it, almost growling. “Pelmeniwith mushroom sauce,borscht, and a side ofkholodets.”
She flashes that smile, her eyes a brilliant, electric blue, like a lightning strike, lighting up with a spark that I feel right in my chest.
“Yes! Can we have two of those,please?”
“Sure, dear!” Ivan stands up immediately, pushing his chair back with a scrape and heading toward the kitchen.
Galina, already lifting the vodka, pours three shots. Quick. Clean. She slides one toward me, pins me with that look. The kind that makes you sit up straighter whether you want to or not.
“You need a wife,” she says in Russian. “This one. She’s good.”
Govno.
27
Clara
Icatch every word they say in Russian, but I keep my face blank.
I push the menu aside, drum my fingers on the table. Smile back at Galina like I’m just another clueless American who can’t understand shit.Wife?Over my dead body—which, considering who’s sitting across from me, isn’t exactly off the table.
Galina slides the bowl between us. “Zakuska, for the vodka.” Pickles glisten in the brine.
“Na zdorovie!” Galina lifts her shot glass. I mirror her, playing follow-the-leader. Next to me, Leonid’s fingers curl around his glass, his thigh a line of heat against mine. Three shots, three killers—though only one of us wears it on her sleeve.
I watch Galina smile without showing her teeth. No one moves that fast at her age unless they’ve spent a lifetime dodging bullets. Her eyes give it away—too sharp, too quick.
Her eyes tell a tale of violence and survival, a story I know all too well. Just like mine, once upon a time.
“Drink!” Steel under sugar. She watches me over her glass, probably counting the ways I could fuck up her precious Leonid. Like throwing me at him will fix whatever’s broken inside him.
The first shot burns, but I don’t flinch. Neither does he. Our eyes lock over the rims of our glasses, and for a second—just a second—I see something shift in that cold stare.
The vodka glass clinks against my teeth. His dark eyes bore into mine, unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey. I break first, focusing on the pickle bowl instead. Anything to escape that stare.
“So, Clara,” Galina’s eyes twinkle like she’s about to share state secrets, “what do you think of our Leonid?”
I stab a pickle, waving it in his direction.
“He’s a dick,” I say flatly, and then bite into it—only to realize, too late, it’s a carrot. The unexpected sweetness hits my tongue, and I suppress a grimace. I chew, swallowing quickly.
Leonid leans back, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Says the woman who’s been stalking me for fourteen years,” he drawls. “I must be growing on you.”
I roll my eyes but can’t ignore the spark flickering in his gaze. “Hah, you wish.” This time, I spear an actual pickle and lift it slowly to eye level. Without breaking his stare, I part my lips and slide it between them, the crunch echoing in the sudden quiet. Sour floods my mouth, sharp enough to make my jaw clench.
Leonid watches me swallow, his lips twitching just enough to shift his face—softer, younger. Almost… happy.
Why the hell would he look happy?
But then, as if realizing he’s let something slip, his jaw tightens, and the hint of a smile vanishes.He glances away first, inspecting his empty glass like it holds state secrets.
