The woman at the counter grins and nods approvingly. “You’re feeding him right.”
Roman chuckles quietly. “It would appear so.”
“Oh!” I add. “And two sweet teas.”
“Sweet tea?” he asks.
“Trust me. You’ll like it.”
“I’m in your hands.”
“Dangerous place to be,” I reply with a wink.
The counter lady calls out the total, and I pull out my wallet. But of course Roman is quicker, handing her his credit card.
“You are introducing me to the hot chicken experience,” he says as she swipes his card. “The least I can do is pay.”
We take a seat at a small table by the window. Roman settles in across from me, his long legs tucked under the tiny area beneath. I watch him as we wait. His gaze tracks the room, but not in his usual suspicious way, like he’s on high alert for danger. It’s more like curiosity.
“Ever been to a place like this before?”
“Not chicken. But something else.”
“Tell me.”
He sits back in his chair, looking away as if bringing back a nearly forgotten memory. “When I was a boy, there was a place near the Sokolniki tram stop in Moscow. You wouldn’t know it was there if you weren’t looking for it. Truth is, we didn’t even know the name. We just called itAunt Zina’s, for the woman who ran it.”
“Your aunt?”
“No. The same way this Mama Lina isn’t your actual mama.” I laugh. “Her specialty was pelmeni—a traditional Russian dumpling. She made them by hand every morning. It’s dough rolled thin, filled with beef, pork, and a lot of garlic, but somehow just the right amount.”
There’s an almost wistful tone to his words. I’ve never heard it before and it makes my chest warm.
“She served them swimming in butter and sour cream, alongside pumpernickel bread still warm from the oven. Nothing was better when the Moscow winters were at their worst. And it was always busy. Not nearly enough tables and chairs. You ate standing up if you had to. But it was worth it.” He looks away, as if another memory popped in. But he doesn’t speak that one out loud.
The moment ends when an employee swings by, plopping our chicken and sides onto the table along with the sweet tea. The chicken’s piled high in red plastic trays, skin crackling and glossy, fresh out of the fryer. The fries are golden, and the mac and cheese looks like molten deliciousness. The collard greens are dark and glistening, slow cooked and perfect. The biscuits have cracked open, steam mingling with the honey. I lean forward and take a sip of the sweet tea, ice-cold and perfectly sweetened.
“This is quite a spread,” Roman says. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“With the chicken, of course,” I say with a smile. “That thigh is calling out to you.”
He furrows his brow in concentration, picking up the chicken with both hands and bringing it to his mouth. I’m practically vibrating with anticipation.
He chews thoughtfully, then his eyes widen comically. I laugh, knowing what’s happening. Roman’s face turns a slight shade of red. He picks up his sweet tea and nearly drains the entire cup.
“That,” he says, setting down the cup, “was indeed hot.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
He takes another bite. Then another. He chews and swallows—more easily, this time. “It’s not bad.”
In that moment, sitting in a hot chicken dive with one of the most dangerous men in the city, I let myself think everything will be okay after all.
CHAPTER 27
ROMAN
“Istill cannot believe how much hot sauce you put on it. That was not necessary.”
