Page 10 of Bratva Sacrifice

Of course she knows her family must be looking for her. But she does not know I have found her.

A little bell over the door dings as I walk in. The coffee shop is decorated in brilliant floral paintings, with lacy little doilies draped over every table. In the far corner there is a large bookshelf stuffed with worn volumes which invite patrons to linger over a book. The shop does steady business. It is just past ten in the morning, and already the tip jar on the counter is stuffed nearly full.

I wonder how much of that is due to Catalina’s bright smile, her pleasant, cheerful demeanor.

The man at the counter looks smitten as he takes the change Catalina offers him, as if her smile means something more than a mere greeting, something beyond the general friendliness a patron would expect of an employee. He makes a show of peeling a crisp five dollar bill from his palm and stuffing it into the tip jar on the counter, like he can buy her time and attention with such a paltry sum.

Catalina doesn’t even notice, despite the flagrant obviousness of the gesture. She is bent over the display case, carefully selecting a slice of pound cake with a pair of tongs. He opens his mouth to say something as she hands him his plate, but she is already turning away again, working the dials of the espresso machine. The man gives a low grunt of aggravation as the sound of grinding beans dominates, making conversation impossible.

By the time she hands him his cup, she has only a last, brief smile for him, her attention reserved for the next customer in line—me. And still the man lingers a few moments longer as I slide up to the counter, as if it will avail him anything.

It takes only a short, meaningful glance—rendered while Catalina is distracted with brushing her bangs out of her face—to send him skittering away. I know his kind. Brash, but weak. Full of pretended confidence and bravado. It is a house of cards that collapses beneath the weight of a breath, beneath a single hard look. He does not want to challenge me for Catalina’s attention, which is wise of him. Instead his head droops as he retreats to a nearby table, where slants me a sullen, resentful glance.

Catalina blows out a breath and lifts her head, her fingers poised over the keys of the register. “What can I get for you?” she asks, painting that bright customer-service smile onto her face. There is not so much as a flicker of recognition in her face, nothing to suggest she has even the slightest idea of who I am. Good.

I tap my fingertips upon the counter, like someone who is not too interested in lingering. “Coffee. Black.”

Her lips purse. “Size?” she asks, her voice bland. She’s judging my order.

“Large.” I’m amused. She has dismissed me in seconds. Women don’t dismiss me.

“Hot or iced?” She is all business now, hand stretched out in anticipation of grabbing the appropriate cup.

I reached across the counter, catch her wrist in the clasp of my fingers. “What is wrong with black coffee?” I ask. My grip is light, but she freezes anyway, her gaze jumping to my fingers around her wrist. Her nose twitches like a startled rabbit. Like a prey animal that senses the presence of a predator.

“Nothing,” she says, and there is caution threaded through her voice. A new tension in her shoulders as they pitch up toward her ears. Her gaze flicks again toward the cups. I still have yet to give her a proper answer.

I let my hand fall from her wrist and lean forward on the counter. It makes me look shorter, less threatening. “Tell me,” I say, and produce a crooked smile which makes her shoulders sink back down again. “What is wrong with black coffee?”

Her pink tongue swipes across her lower lip. Her cheeks flush, just a little. “Well,” she says. “It’s boring. Don’t you think?”

I chuckle. “Is it? What do you recommend instead”—I make a show of squinting at the nametag pinned to her apron—“Cat?”

She points to the board above and behind her. “The lavender rose iced latte,” she says. “It comes with lavender syrup, whipped cream, and rose petals.”

It sounds terrible. Like a drinking a fucking garden. Who wants to drink a garden? “Give me that, then,” I say as I pull my wallet from my pocket and retrieve a hundred dollar bill.

Catalina stares at it, her blond brows furrowing. “It’s seven thirty-eight,” she says. “Tax included.”

“I don’t have anything else.”

“Do you have a credit card? The owner just emptied the till; I don’t know that there’s enough in the register to make change.”

“I don’t need change. Keep it for yourself.”

“That’s…a lot, you know.” Catalina’s cheeks hollow as she reaches for a cup. “A ninety-two dollar tip. Plus change,” she says, that quizzical expression still pleated into her brow.

“Maybe I feel generous today, Katya.” I know she must be strapped for cash. A little extra might not truly endear me to her, but it will definitely ensure she remembers me. As she opens the till, I turn my head to shoot a mocking glance at the man who is still scowling in my direction.

Fuck off with your pitiful five dollar bill.

Catalina accepts the hundred and slides it neatly into the till. “Can I get a name for your order?” she asks as she grabs a marker.

“Alexei,” I say, and she dutifully scrawls it onto the cup.

The bell jingles as another few patrons meander in. Even my exorbitant tip will not hold her attention for much longer. Catalina has turned her back on me now as she works the espresso machine and laces the clear plastic cup with liberal pumps of a viscous purple syrup. While she works, I let my gaze linger on her ass for a few moments. She’s got a nice ass. Round and full, flattered by the cut of her jeans. The sort of plump, firm flesh I can sink my fingers into.

When she turns around again to offer me my drink, I can see that the mound of whipped cream on top is flaked with crushed rose petals. The smell is absurdly floral, the scent of coffee smothered by the syrupy sweet aroma of the flowers. I make certain our fingers touch as she hands the cup over to me. Hers are cold, chilled by the icy cup in her hand.