"No, thank you," I tell her, though I don't match her warm smile. I never know if a woman is flirting with me or just being nice, though if she did flirt with me, I wouldn’t mind. A bit too young, maybe, but it'd make this old man feel like a kid again.
She leaves the mug on the table and walks back to the counter where an older man in a stained apron talks to her in rapid Serbian I can't follow. I wrap both hands around the mug and let the heat burn into my palms.
The first sip scalds my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The pain pulls my focus away from my leg and grounds me in the present moment. I drain half the cup and lift my mug into the air to let the waitress know I'm in need of a refill before I scrub a hand over my face and let myself get lost in thought while I wait.
I've been hunting that bastard Lebedev for almost eight months now and my time is running out. When I got intel that he vanished into Serbia, I made my move, though I was given onehundred and twenty days to be here, and with the time ticking down on my visa's expiration, it's seeming more and more likely that I won't be able to find him in time. Every time I get close, there's another hurdle.
The official who promised information keeps stalling. More money, more time, more patience, and I'm running out of all three. My crew's asking too many questions about the timeline, and I can feel their loyalty starting to fray.
The pretty waitress refills my cup without a word, and I intend to sip it rather than making my scalded tongue worse. Her eyes flick to my leg where the torn denim is visible and blood has dried in dark patches on the fabric. She looks at it for half a second and then away before she nods and makes eye contact.
"Thank you," I tell her again, but this time, I get a look of concern from her.
"Are you hurt?" she asks, but I force a laugh and wave it off.
"Dog bite… I'll be fine," I lie, and she furrows her brow, but she nods and walks away without protest. I sure hope the cops don't come here asking questions. I'd sure hate to have to give up this quiet little corner where I do my best thinking.
I'm running out of time to find Dominic's killer and make him pay.
Unless I find a way to extend my stay legally, this entire operation will collapse before I finish what I came here to do. It's possible I could find him in the next twenty-three days but not likely, given I've been here ninety-seven without so much as a glimpse of him. It honestly feels like the universe has conspired against me to throw every roadblock in my way to stop me, and it's starting to piss me off.
Yuri won't be satisfied with failure, and he shouldn’t have to settle for no justice for his son. And his poor wife—lost her father and almost got thrown into jail over it. This entire fucking situation is a nightmare. Between Marat Kozlov and his plots, the way Yaros Veche has schemed with a Balkan syndicate to turn against my family, and Andrei's flight from St. Petersburg, the Gravitch family has been through enough.
I'm going to put a stop to it one way or another. And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure Yuri has justice and this all-out war against us ends.
Soon.
2
DANICA
Steam curls up from the hot coffee pot and snakes around my wrist when I pour refills for the two truckers at the counter. They nod their thanks without looking up from their phones, and I move down the line to check on the old woman in booth three. She's staring out the window again with her tea going cold in front of her.
"You want me to warm that up for you?" I ask softly, but she seems distracted. Something must be bothering her today, though sometimes she just does this. It's one of the little things I notice about my regulars, when they're not having a good day.
She blinks and looks at me for the first time in twenty minutes. Her eyes are watery and distant and she shakes her head before turning back to the window. I leave her alone because some nights, people just need a place to sit that isn't home. God knows if someone asked me if I were okay on my bad days, I'd probably bite their head off.
The bell above the door chimes, and I glance up to see Petr walking in with that same stupid grin he always wears. Mystomach drops, but I force myself to smile because he's a customer and I can't afford to get fired. Though if anyone were a worthwhile reason to lose my job, it's him. He slides into his usual booth near the back and spreads his legs wide under the table, manspreading to claim the territory. It's gross.
"Danica," he calls out before I even make it halfway across the floor. "Come here, beautiful."
I walk over with my notepad already out and my pen ready to write. He's leaning back against the vinyl with his arms stretched across the top of the seat and his eyes ogling me and making my skin crawl. The fluorescent lights overhead make his sandy hair look greasy and his gray eyes are too bright.
"What can I get you, Petr?" I ask in English because he always insists on practicing. It challenges me to use a foreign language, but sometimes he complains to the boss and I can't afford to lose this job.
"You know what I want." He grins wider and leans forward, and I'm surprised he's not groping me yet. "But I'll settle for coffee and eggs."
I write it down without responding to the first part, but his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist before I can step back and his fingers are damp with sweat. The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, but it's firm enough to keep me from pulling away without making a scene. I glance around and see the cook's eyes on me. He knows how much I hate when Petr does this.
"You're always in such a hurry," he says. "Sit with me for a minute."
"I'm working, Petr." I tug my wrist gently and his grip tightens. "Let go."
He holds on for three more seconds before releasing me with a laugh that sounds too loud in the quiet diner. I step back and put the notepad in my apron pocket while I fight the urge to wipe my wrist on my uniform. I hate the way he looks at me like I'm a piece of meat he's ready to devour, and I turn away before he can say anything else.
Mina's at the coffee station when I get back to the counter, and she takes one look at my face before shaking her head. Her auburn hair is falling out of the bun she tied this morning and her brown eyes are sharp with the anger I'm not allowed to show. She's been working here three years longer than me and she doesn't hide what she thinks about customers like Petr.
"That bastard touch you again?" she hisses, though her voice is quiet so no one else can hear.
