25. Chapter 25

25

Clara

M y eyebrows lift as I take in the scene.

I blink, adjusting to the dim interior. Dark wooden tables dot the room, each covered with embroidered cloths in deep reds and golds. Along the walls, cushioned benches stretch beneath rows of framed photographs—faces that could be anyone’s grandmother or grandfather back in their motherland. A long counter dominates the right, its surface scattered with tin tea glasses in traditional ornate style, made from materials like silver.

A deep male voice croons in Russian from hidden speakers, the melody somehow both melancholic and warm. Behind the counter, a massive brass samovar commands attention like a throne, steam rising from its spout. The air is thick with the smell of dill and sour cream.

Three couples by the window freeze, forks suspended over plates of stroganoff. In the corner, a chess game sits forgotten, the players too busy staring at us to notice their timer’s still running. Lace curtains filter the afternoon sun, and the whole place smells of the rich warmth of slow-cooked meat.

“Lyonya!”

A silver-haired woman materializes from behind the counter, moving faster than anyone her age has any right to. She’s tiny—barely reaching Leonid’s chest—but the way she barrels toward him with open arms makes me think of those nature documentaries where mama bears charge at things three times their size.

Leonid actually softens .

Holy shit. His shoulders drop a fraction, and that murder-strut loosens into something almost human. The woman reaches up, patting his cheeks like he’s six instead of… whatever terrifying age dangerous men with criminal empires turn.

“Still too skinny,” she scolds in accented English, and I nearly choke. The Henley stretching across his chest begs to differ.

I can’t help but stare. The most feared man in the city stands here with his hands awkwardly at his sides, like he can’t decide whether to hug her or run. The way he ducks his head when she reaches up to straighten his collar—Christ, he’s practically shrinking to let her fuss. His usual prowling grace is replaced by something almost boyish, something that makes my chest do weird things. It’s like watching a tiger turn into a housecat under grandma’s scratches.

Note to self: Cute is dangerous on him. Very, very dangerous.

Movement behind the counter catches my eye—another figure emerging from the kitchen’s steam. Before I can focus on him, the tiny woman’s gaze locks onto me like a heat-seeking missile.

“And who is this?”

“I’m…”

“ Tyo-tya Galina—” Leonid starts, a warning note in his voice that she completely ignores.

“A… pretty girl.” Galina’s gaze sweeps over me; those eyes might be warm, but they miss nothing. Slow and deliberate, from the top of my head to my toes. She arches an eyebrow, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smirk.

“But those slippers!” She points at my feet like they’ve personally offended her. “Lyonya, you bring her here dressed like a hospital patient?”

I bite back a laugh. “Actually—”

“Sit, sit!” She waves us toward a corner booth. “Ivan! Bring the good vodka!”

A tall man behind the counter—probably Ivan—just nods, already pulling out a frosted bottle. The familiarity of it hits me—they know exactly which vodka is his vodka.

“I don’t need—” Leonid tries again.

“Nonsense. Growing boy needs feeding.” She pats his cheek once more. “Still remember when you were this high, stealing pirozhki from my kitchen window.”

Oh, really? I sink into the heavy wooden chair he pulls out, tucking this little nugget away. Baby criminal Leonid, climbing through windows for pastries? That’s… surprisingly adorable.

“ Tyo-tya Galina.” His voice carries that don’t-fuck-with-me tone that makes grown men wet themselves. She just tsks and pats his arm.

“You sound just like your papa when you do that. Same scowl, same growl.” Her eyes soften. “But you have your mama’s heart. She would be proud—”

“ Enough, Tyo-tya Galina!” Leonid drops his head into his hands, and holy shit, is that a blush creeping up his neck?

The word cracks like a whip. I flinch, but Galina doesn’t even blink. She just gives him a look that somehow manages to be both loving and deeply unimpressed.

WHACK.

My jaw drops as Galina’s hand connects with the back of Leonid’s head.

“You use that Bratva tone with me, I tell everyone about the time you cried because Ivan’s cat wouldn’t let you pet her.”

Leonid’s eyes go wide. Actually wide. I press my lips together so hard they might bruise, but a snort escapes anyway. His head snaps toward me, those dark brown eyes promising delicious murder, but Galina’s already running her fingers through his hair, smoothing down the spot she just smacked.

“ Sorry, Tyo-tya ,” he mutters. I clamp my hand over my mouth, fingernails digging into my cheek.

Stop finding this endearing , Clara. Adorable mob bosses are definitely NOT a thing.

“Now, sit!”

The wooden chair scrapes against the floor as Leonid pulls it out. He exhales—long and heavy—before lowering himself beside me. His fingers rake through his hair, and he won’t look at me. The chess players have completely given up pretending to play their game.

“Stop it,” he mutters.

“Stop what?”

He turns his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine. His jaw clenches, unclenches. I press my lips together, fighting the laugh bubbling up my throat. My shoulders shake with the effort to keep it in as I blink at him, all innocence.

Sudden movement makes me stiffen—Galina’s behind me, her fingers working through my tangled mess of hair.

“And what is your name, dorogaya ?”

I tilt my head back, meeting Galina’s eyes. Even upside down, I can see traces of what must have been a remarkable beauty in her younger days—those high cheekbones, the graceful arch of her brows, the way she carries herself like a queen, even in a simple apron.

“Clara.”

Her hands pause. Something flickers in her expression before she turns my face toward hers, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.

“Clara,” she repeats, her fingers still in my hair. “Such a pretty name. Now tell me, what’s a nice girl like you doing with this troublemaker?”

I lean back in my chair, flicking a loose thread on Leonid’s oversized hoodie. “Oh, he kidnapped me and my son.”

The restaurant freezes. A woman’s spoon hovers halfway to her mouth, soup dripping back into her bowl. The chess players’ heads swivel toward our table in sync, like they’re watching a tennis match.

“She tried to poison me first,” Leonid cuts in, both hands now flat on the table. The muscle in his jaw ticks.

The woman’s soup spoon finally drops with a splash. The chess players lean forward so far they’re practically lying on their table. Even the steam from the samovar seems to pause, hanging in the air.

Well,” I fold my arms across my chest, “I thought he killed my brother.”

A fork hits a plate with a sharp ping, spinning once, twice, before rolling off the edge. It hits the floor in the dead silence, the clatter echoing off the walls. One of the chess players reaches for his water glass, misses completely, and knocks over his king instead.

The silence stretches for exactly three seconds before Galina throws her head back and laughs. Not a polite chuckle—a full-bodied, shoulder-shaking laugh that makes the chess pieces rattle.

When she finally stops, wiping her eyes, her gaze lands back on me, sharper now, cutting through the humor.

“And where is your husband, Clara? Do you have a— husband ?”

“No…” I say with a shrug, my eyes drifting to the side. “He’s… dead. ”

“Are you taking care of your son alone? Without his father?” she asks, her voice sugary sweet, like she’s offering condolences at a funeral she planned herself.

I manage a small nod. “Yes.”

Galina’s lips part into an exaggerated “aaah,” her expression shifting to something almost… pleased. She shifts her attention to Leonid, her mouth curving like she’s holding back a laugh, before turning back to me.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, though it sounds anything but sincere. “It must be tough, raising him alone.”

I glance at Leonid, but he’s staring down, his thumb tracing the edge of his glass like it’s the only thing tethering him.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let the awkwardness settle on me. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I reply, my voice steady. “Elijah’s a great kid. Smart, funny, and full of energy. Honestly, he makes it easier than you’d think.”

Galina’s smile widens, and there’s something triumphant in the way she tilts her head, as if my answer was exactly what she wanted to hear.

“How lucky for you.” Her eyes dart toward Leonid, almost daring him to respond.

“Sorry for the wait.”

The interruption pulls me out of the silent tug-of-war.

I glance up at the tall figure beside our table. Ivan. A bowl of what looks like pickled vegetables in one hand, a bottle of Beluga Gold Line in the other. His smile is pleasant enough, but his eyes stay cold.

He places the bottle and bowl down. Those hands catch my attention. Rough, scarred across the knuckles.

Ivan catches me staring. I meet his eyes and give a slow nod. He returns it with that same pleasant smile that doesn’t quite fit his face.

“Thank you, love.” Galina reaches for his hand.

Ivan bends to kiss Galina’s cheek, and I almost buy it—just a sweet old man in an apron.

“Just like the old days,” he says softly to Galina. I cock my head, studying their shared look. Whatever those “old days” were, they definitely involved more than serving borscht .

I track his eyes. Never still. Door. Windows. The guys in the corner who’ve been here too long. I cross my arms, recognizing that stance.

But I’m too hungry by now, leaning forward, trying to identify the colorful array of pickled things.

Are those mushrooms? Maybe carrots?

Whatever that purple one is, it’s calling my name. My stomach makes its opinion known loudly.

Ivan’s eyebrows shoot up, and Leonid’s lips twitch.

Great.

“When’s the last time you fed her, Lyonya ?” Suddenly, Galina slaps Leonid’s shoulder—hard.

The crack echoes across the room.