“Can I ask you something directly?” she says.
“You already are.”
Her mouth curves faintly at that, then stills. She hums softly, almost under her breath, before lifting her eyes to mine. “Are you Russian mafia?”
The question is neither accusatory nor naïve, just clear.
“Yes,” I answer.
I don’t elaborate or soften it. She holds my gaze as she processes the information. Whatever conclusion she reaches, it isn’t a surprise.
“Okay,” she replies quietly.
The word reflects acceptance without approval, and acknowledgment without judgment. It tells me more than a dozen follow-up questions would have.
She lifts her glass again, taking a slower sip this time. When she lowers it, her fingers rest against the rim as if keeping herself present.
“That explains a few things,” she adds.
“It explains structure,” I respond. “Not intent.”
Her eyes remain on mine, thoughtful. “That’s fair.”
The space between us feels smaller now, not because either of us moves, but because pretense has been removed. She studies my face for a moment longer, then nods once, as if confirming something she had already suspected. There’s no fear in her expression.
“Were you born there?” she questions.
“In Russia,” I confirm. “Moscow.”
Her brows draw together slightly with interest.
“How long were you there?”
“Until I was fourteen.”
I take a slow sip, buying myself a moment I don’t actually need. I’m aware of the choice in front of me. I don’t owe her this. Information is currency in my world, spent carefully, and guarded instinctively. The question feels earned, asked without motive or expectation.
“My father moved us to the States,” I continue. “My sister and I.”
“For school?” she asks.
“For safety.”
Her fingers tighten briefly around her glass, then relax. “That doesn’t sound like a small decision.”
“It wasn’t.”
She leans slightly toward me, not touching, but closer now. “Why America?”
“Distance,” I answer first. Then, after a pause I don’t intend to leave empty, I add, “Opportunity. It was easier to build something legitimate here without constant interference.”
She listens closely, absorbing tone as much as content.
“You were young,” she says. “That’s a lot to take on.”
I incline my head. “It was normal to me.”
Silence follows, expectant rather than awkward.
