“Ah!” Galina’s already pouring another round. “You two remind me of my good old days!”
“Your… good old days?” I arch a brow, leaning back.
“Da!” She sets the vodka bottle down with a decisive thunk. “When I met my Ivan in Moscow. I was supposed to kill him, you know. Instead…” She wiggles her eyebrows like she’s about to launch into a steamy, spy-thriller romance.
Leonid groans. “Tyo-tyaGalina,please.” He’s leaning back in his chair, but his thigh stays pressed against mine. Thick, solid muscle, too warm against my bare skin, like he doesn’t even notice—or maybe he does.
But damn, it’s… distracting. I sneak a glance, side-eyeing him in disbelief. Is that a thigh or a steel beam? A log, maybe? For the love of all things sane, no one’s leg should be built like that.
I don’t move. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting. But the moment he shifts away, I let out a quiet breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
That’s when the scent hits me. Rich, savory—garlic, onions, and something roasted, spilling out from the kitchen like Ivan’s trying to lure us in with pure temptation. My stomach growls, the vodka sinking heavier with each breath. I’m hungry, lightheaded, and the sharp tang of alcohol has started to buzz in my veins. It makes the room tilt, just for a second, like the whole place is holding its breath.
Galina tugs at the knot of her apron, adjusting it as if she’s settling in for something serious. Her fingers brush Leonid’s hand, small against his, but he doesn’t move.
I glance at his hand, then quickly look away, only to glance back again. Damn it. I swallow a lump of… saliva. Must be the vodka, but suddenly, I’m noticing things I shouldn’t. Like how big his hand actually is.
It’s not just big—it’s strong. Broad, with long fingers that flex slightly, veins running along the back like a roadmap.
He shifts, rolling up his sleeve, and I swear the air in the room changes. Thick forearm, corded with muscle, the veins more prominent now. It’s the kind of hand that could wrap around a glass—or my entire neck—with ease.
I grab my glass and take a quick sip as if that’ll drown out the ridiculous thoughts bubbling in my head.
“Did you know our littleLyonyaloves animals? Such a soft heart, that boy.” Galina’s face lights up, beaming with pride. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she clasps her hands together like she’s just announced her grandson won a Nobel Prize. “He’s the sweetest!”
I blink, caught off guard. “What, now?”
Placing my glass down, I make the mistake of glancing at his hand again. Stupid, sexy man hand—big, broad, and entirely too distracting. My gaze drifts up, tracing the veins that disappear under his rolled-up sleeve, and I cock my head at Leonid.
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking like he’s fighting to keep control. “This conversation is over…”
But Galina leans in, conspiratorial. “He wanted to be a veterinarian.” Her voice drops like she’s revealing classified intel. “Can you imagine?”
That explains the peacocks. And the snakes. What’s next—penguins?
A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and involuntary. “A vet?” I glance at Leonid, catching the briefest flicker of irritation—or maybe embarrassment.
“Until his father decided killing was more important than healing—”
“Bozhe moy. Not another word,” Leonid hisses. He sets the vodka glass down with a quiet, deliberate clink.
The silence between them stretches.
Leonid reaches for the vodka once more, his fingers wrapping around the glass, but he doesn’t drink. Galina’s hand comesdown lightly on his shoulder, her palm brushing the fabric before she gives him a soft pat. He stiffens, but only for a moment.
“You’ve carried enough,Lyonya,” she says.
His hand shifts to the bottle, turning it just slightly, the glass base scraping against the table. He doesn’t look at her.
“You know,” I say, jabbing my fork at him, the pickle skewered like it’s backing me up, “I always thought you wanted to be the mafia boss. The power, the throne, an endless supply of vodka—it’s got your name written all over it.”
Leonid rubs the back of his neck, fingers lingering there for a moment as though grounding himself. He shifts back in his chair, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a thought.
“Not everything’s about power,” he says, his hand finally letting go of the glass.
Galina glances at me, then back to him, her fingers brushing over the edge of his sleeve.
“Your father,” she starts softly, pausing as if picking her words carefully, “he wanted you to lead, Leonid. Even after your mother…” She trails off, glancing down, her mouth tightening.
