I order us tea and a few pastries. It feels strange to be using someone else’s money to fund our outing today, but then again, Miss Dori did tell me the family would be providing for whatever expenses I end up needing.
Not to mention, I haven’t seen Sergei spending any real time with his daughter since I’ve been here. Maybe he’s just relieved I’m occupying her with something to do outside the house for once, and that’s why he gave me his black card with unlimited funds to use.
Yulia leans forward on her elbows, eyes shining, cheeks still slightly pink from the cold air outside. Her eyes glow with the kind of pure joy only children seem capable of, and it warms my chest seeing it. “Today is my favorite.”
I smile, wrapping both hands around my warm mug.
“Mine too,” I say, and I mean it.
For the first time since arriving in Russia, I feel like I’ve surfaced. Like I’ve come up for air after holding my breath for far too long. The weight of the mansion, the eyes I feel watching me, the unspoken rules—I’ve left them behind for just a little while.
The world feels almost normal again.
Until the first gunshot.
At first, I think it’s a car backfiring outside because why else would I think differently when we’re inside a cute little cafe? Things like that don’thappenin real life like they do in the movies.
But then it happens again. Closer. And this time, unmistakablynota car.
A second later, the front windows explode. Glass flies inward like a rain of daggers. People scream, chairs scrape violently across the floor as half the patrons duck, and the other half scatter toward the back of the cafe in a frenzy.
A bullet whizzes past and nicks the front counter just inches from where someone was ordering a latte a minute ago and shatters the pastry display in a blast of crumbs and cake pops. The sound is shrill and absolutely terrifying.
A woman shrieks in Russian, grabbing her little boy by the collar, and dives to the floor, dragging him under a table before the bullets find them.
I don’t think. I move.
I grab Yulia and yank her from her seat. She gasps as I pull her under our table, one of my arms locked tightly around her middle. I throw my shoulder against the edge of the table, knocking it onto its side to create a crude barrier. My knees slam into the tile, and hot tea spills across the floor, steaming against the cold floor that is now flooded with broken shards from the windows.
Yulia’s shaking. I hold her tighter, curling my body around hers, shielding her with every inch of myself. Her tiny hands clutch my coat in fistfuls. Her head is pressed against my chest, and I can feel the ragged rhythm of her breathing against my neck.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, even though I have no idea if it’s true. “It’s okay, honey. Just stay still. Don’t move.”
Another round of shots rips through the cafe, inside this time. I flinch, ducking lower, pressing her tighter to the floor. Muffled yelling echoes around us, commands barked in Russian that sound sharp and urgent. Someone sobs nearby.
I start counting seconds under my breath. One. Two. Three.
It has to stop soon. Drive-bys don’t last this long. Not in broad daylight like this. Whoever the target was, they’ve either been hit or gotten away. That’s how these things go. Hit and run, loud and fast. A storm that tears through and disappears before anyone can react.
Ten seconds. Fifteen.
A ringing hush fills my ears, not just from the gunfire, but from theabsenceof anything else. I can’t even hear the crying anymore. No screams or moans of pain. No panicked shuffling of people getting up and scrambling to leave as the eye of the storm comes. Just the deafening silence and the heavy, horrible knowledge that someone is still here.
I swallow.
Boots crunch over broken glass just a few feet away. Each step sounds like a hammer slamming against the floor, over and over at an excruciatingly slow pace. Yulia holds her breath. I feel it. She’s completely still now, her body understanding something her brain can’t name yet.
The footsteps get closer, then they stop right beside us.
I freeze. My body hums with fear. I hear the slow bend of leather, the dull crunch of boots shifting on broken glass as the figure close to us crouches. A shadow slinks over us, the faint glint ofsomething metallic catching my eyes when I raise them up from the broken shards of glass surrounding us.
“You two,” a voice says, calm, and in near-perfect English. “Get up.”
When I lift my head, I see a man crouching with his hands dangled between his spread thighs, dressed head to toe in black. Tactical clothing, not casual. The side of his face is streaked with blood. His hands are bare, and one of them clutches a gun loosely that he lifts to settle into the holster at his hip.
He stares at me with eyes so cold and icy blue that they make my stomach drop. When he lifts back up onto his feet, the glass under his boots crunches again, making me flinch.
“Up,” the man repeats, this time with less patience.
