LEO
The coffee shop was louder than it needed to be for such an early morning. Steam hissed, cups knocked against metal, and someone laughed too brightly near the window while people chatted in small groups around their tables as if they hadn’t yet learned the world could turn on you without warning. That the person you expected to grow old beside could leave you behind, struggling to exist in a home that used to be your refuge but was slowly becoming the very thing that suffocated you.
I used to complain about the noise at the coffee shop so much that my husband—late husband—had surprised me with a top-of-the-line espresso machine for our kitchen. He’d presented it like a peace offering, then bent over the counter for me to express my gratitude while it ran its first cycle, promising me I’d never need to set foot in a café again.
Bradley used to enjoy buying me things. Thoughtful things. Excessive things. It was one of the things I’d loved about him.
That machine sat untouched now. The day he died was the last morning I’d used it.
A week later, I’d started coming to Ground Theory again. It was a modern, industrial-style café with exposed brick, concrete floors, and long wooden tables meant for people who liked to work in public spaces. The baristas moved efficiently, and the espresso was consistent. The place drew hospital staff, college students, and professionals alike. The coffee was top tier, the space clean, and most importantly, it was a place where I could sit alone for fifteen minutes and get lost in the hum of other people’s lives before going to work.
I now welcomed the very chatter that I’d so hated in the past as it meant not being alone inside my head.
The hospital lounge offered endless cups of black coffee, but it tasted like burnt water, and I refused to begin my rounds with that in my system. When I didn’t have time to stop, I paid an off-shift orderly to grab one for me and tipped them enough to make it worth their trouble.
A good cup of coffee was nonnegotiable. Like most caffeine-addicted workaholics, I didn’t function properly without it.
“Large Americano, right?” The cute barista with a blonde ponytail swinging from the back of her cap blasted me with a smile.
I nodded. “Yes, and an apple tart, please.”
“Certainly. That’ll be…”
I reached into my coat for my wallet, fingers brushing leather before I pulled it free. Normally, I had my card ready before the barista even finished saying the total. Efficiency mattered to me, and routine steadied me.
This morning, I was distracted.
The black GMC truck had followed me from my driveway to the coffee shop. The third time this week. Other timeshewould have at least maintained a good distance fromme to be subtle, but today he was on my tail. He wasn’t even pretending anymore, which meant he knew I couldn’t do anything about it.
And I hated him for that. For taking away my willpower the moment they coerced me into working with them to beat a man to death. One of the doctors had forwarded the barely recognizable mess of their victim to our group chat, and I hadn’t been able to eat solid food for a couple of days after that.
I’d seen all sorts of things in my time as a doctor with a specialism in internal medicine and yet had only come face-to-face recently with two of the worst things I’d ever witnessed: my husband’s body after he “jumped” from the high-rise office building where he worked and the body of the man who tried to push me to murder a patient, a Bratva Pakhan’s lover.
I’d done everything they asked, including getting the best medical help for Wren. If not for me, he would have died. But were they grateful? No. They still treated me like a threat.
A hand reached around me and tapped a black metal card against the machine, which beeped approval before I fully registered what was happening.
I know the shape of that hand.
It was larger than mine, broad across the knuckles, the veins prominent beneath the skin. His fingers were long, thick, and calloused, with neatly trimmed, clean nails. On the back of his right hand, a compass was inked in black lines. Across the side of his middle finger, just above the heavy matte ring he wore there, the words “hell bent” were tattooed in calligraphy.
“I’ve got it,” Sergei said, his voice its usual disturbing calm. He had the deep, gravelly baritone of a man who didn’t talk much.
My pulse spiked as the scent of him reached me—darkspice layered over something clean and expensive. The barista glanced between us, eyebrows lifting with interest as the receipt printed.
“Well, that’s sweet,” she said, sliding the paper toward him. Then she grinned at me. “You’ve got a handsome guy buying your coffee this early? Someone’s about to have a good day.”
Out of habit, I twisted my wedding band. The barista’s eyes dropped to it, and color bloomed across her cheeks as she turned away quickly.
I stepped toward an empty table near the counter to wait for my name to be called, and Sergei followed. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat as if this were an agreed-upon meeting rather than an intrusion. It was too much to hope that he would pay for the coffee and apple tart, then disappear.
“I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own coffee,” I said, keeping my voice level as I slid my phone from my coat pocket.
“A thank-you would suffice.”
His expression was as unreadable as ever, calm, watchful, and infuriatingly neutral. Most people gave off something, but Sergei offered nothing. It was like speaking to a wall.
“Twelve dollars,” I said coolly, fiddling with my phone so I didn’t have to look at him anymore, “is hardly adequate compensation for the damage you’ve done to me.”
