He hands me one, and the smell alone makes my stomach growl. I take a bite and the flavors explode. Perfectly seasoned meat, fresh tortilla, the sweetness of cilantro.
It’s so good I let out a moan.
Kirill watches me with obvious satisfaction. “You like it?”
“It’s amazing.” I take another bite because I can’t help myself. “Okay, you were right. I’ve never had anything like this.”
“Told you.” He nods at Rosa and she returns it before shuffling back into the kitchen.
He’s completely at ease here. This version of Kirill, relaxed and speaking Spanish with Rosa like family, doesn’t match the Kirill at the club whose vibe is all business.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask between sips of orange soda.
“My brothers and I used to shoot pool at the hall upstairs. We’d come here when things got too heavy at home. Rosa would feed us no matter what time we showed up.” He reaches for another taco. “Eventually we spent enough time here to pick up Spanish. Mine’s shit, but enough to get by. When my sister was old enough, we started bringing her too.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yeah. Katya. She’s fifteen years younger than me.” Tenderness floods his voice.
“That’s a big gap.”
“Yeah, it is.” He looks down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of his plate. “Our mother died when she was a newborn. I was fifteen. Maybe that’s why I felt more like a father to her than a brother.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How did she…” I catch myself, realizing how invasive the question is. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Car accident.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, like he’s recited this many times. “She was coming home from an event, and she … lost control of the car.”
My throat closes. “God, Kirill. I’m so sorry. That must have been hard.”
“It wasn’t great.” He takes a sip of his drink. “When my sister got sick, she barely had an appetite. Rosa made her chicken soup from scratch, one of the few things she’d eat.”
“Sick?”
“She was eight when she was diagnosed with leukemia. We spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals.”
My throat tightens. “Is she okay now?”
“She’s in remission. Has been for years.” His expression softens.
I don’t know why but I can’t help laying my hand on his. He turns his palm over beneath mine, threading our fingers together. The gesture is so natural I don’t notice until our palms are pressed together, his fingers warm against mine.
My pulse kicks up.
His eyes meet mine and there’s something raw there. It makes me forget, for a moment, that I’m supposed to be using him.
“It was a tough time for all of us. But those are the moments that bond you, you know? To each other. To the people who show up for you. It bonded me to this place.”
I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t prepared for this side of him, shaped by loss like mine.
“I lost my mom when I was young too,” I blurt. I hadn’t meant to share that, but something in his voice makes me want to offer something real in return.
His grip tightens, thumb sweeping across my knuckles. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “How old were you?”
“Six. So I have more memories than Katya probably does. Good ones, mostly. Her laugh. The way she’d braid my hair before bed. How she’d sing while she cooked.” My voice catches and I clear my throat. “But it was hard for us afterwards. I don’t have siblings, so it was me and my father, and he wasn’t in a good place for a while. He tried to put on a happy face for me, but I knew he was struggling.”
“What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“She … took her own life.”
