26. Chapter 26

26

Leonid

I di na khuy, Leonid . Two mistakes in less than twenty-four hours. A fucking record.

First, I kissed her. Stupid. Reckless.

Now, all I can think about is getting those sweet, supple lips wrapped around my cock, sucking and licking like she was born to please me.

Second, I brought her here. Even dumber. Bringing her into my territory, where everyone—and everything—wants to take a bite out of her. Myself included.

And yet, the only thing I can’t stop replaying in my head is her saying, “He’s dead.” No husband. No one waiting for her. No one who gets to claim her, protect her, keep her from me. Blyat, the relief I felt when she said it—like something uncoiled in my chest.

The slap from Galina stings, sure, but it’s nothing compared to the look Clara’s giving me. She’s got this defiant glint in her eye like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and my pulse tightens. She’s here, in my world, stirring things up with those soft curves and that mouth that seems to speak only in defiance. Cute. Dangerous, too. More dangerous than I’d like to admit.

I sigh, meeting Galina’s eyes again. She folds her arms, unimpressed. Ivan stands beside her, as solid and unreadable as ever, the old soldier of the Bratva. Back in the day, he was one of my father’s lieutenants, one of the deadliest enforcers. Now, he’s the soft-spoken man who fell in love with Galina and turned his back on that life. My father let him go without losing a finger or a tongue—more than anyone else got. Because Ivan saved him once. Galina—well, back in Ukraine, she was a legend. They say she could handle a blade better than anyone, slipping in and out of places no one else could. Yet here she is, apron tied, scolding me like I’m some brat swiping cookies.

“So, uh…” I try to steer the attention off us, scrambling for something—anything—to distract from the way she makes my focus slip. “Well, she had pancakes.”

“Hah!” Her lips twitch, and I want to reach across the table and silence her smug little mouth with mine. “Hardly,” she huffs, feigning insult, but those eyes say she’s enjoying every second of this. “He threatened me—with my child, my… bodyguard.”

I narrow my eyes, hoping to communicate what words won’t cover: Keep pushing, and we’ll see how far you’ll go.

She cocks her head ever so slightly, one eyebrow arching, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips. Like she wants to see what’ll happen if I snap.

She turns to Ivan and Galina, as sweet as an angel, with that soft, rounded mouth of hers that’s done more damage to my control than anything else.

“Can I… look at the menu, please?” Her tone’s all innocence, but her eyes find mine for just a second, playful, almost wicked.

Hell. This woman’s a menace. Sitting there with that look like she’s made of sugar—and I’m the idiot letting her.

Galina’s delighted. “Oh! Yes, yes!” she says, beaming. Ivan steps away to fetch a menu, handing it to Clara as if she’s some prized guest. Meanwhile, I’m wrestling with myself, each second a reminder that I’ve brought her too close. Too close to me.

Galina doesn’t go back to the counter, though. She drags over a chair, sits down, and leans in, folding her arms on the table like she’s here for storytime.

“So…” She props her chin on her hand, her gaze soft yet piercing. “And your little one—how old?”

I clear my throat, trying to keep my cool, but I can feel my patience fraying. I don’t bring women here. Ever . I barely even bring me here.

Carla’s eyes dart up, meeting mine for half a second, wide and sharp, before narrowing. Her lips press into a thin line, like she’s swallowing something bitter.

“He’s… 4. Turning 5 soon.”

Four. The word takes the breath from my lungs.

Something sharp coils inside me, snapping tight. Once again, I’m trying not to put two and two together too fast, but my mind’s already there.

No, no. it can’t be .

My hands clasp together on the table, fingers flexing tight, almost painfully, as I grit my teeth. “ Tyo-tya Galina, she’s not here as a guest. You don’t need to…”

Galina doesn’t spare me a glance. It’s like I’m some third wheel nobody invited.

“What’s his name?” she asks, her whole focus on Clara, leaning in just a little, her attention so intent it’s like she’s pulling every word out of her.

“Elijah.” Clara’s face brightens like the sun cutting through clouds just for her. And, chyert , I find myself smiling along with her. Damn it, stop. I press down hard on the flicker of warmth in my chest.

Ivan strides over with the menu and an extra chair, setting everything down with that infuriating calm he always has. Like this isn’t a complete disaster of an idea, like this is all part of some quiet ceremony. Chyert. I thought this would be some kind of quick early lunch-dinner shit, in and out, but now I’m stuck in what feels like a family reunion gone rogue.

Before Clara can even pick up the menu, I’m already leaning forward. “ Pelmeni with mushroom sauce, borscht , and a side of kholodets. ”

“Hey… I can order my own food,” Clara protests. Her eyebrows arch, her lips pinching tight.

Just as I settle back, thinking we can wrap this up fast, Galina slaps my hand away and takes the menu from Ivan’s grasp.

“Let your girl order on her own!” she snaps in Russian.

“She’s not my girl!” I mutter in English, pinching the bridge of my nose to keep from saying something I’ll regret.

Ivan’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder, that familiar, silent message to shut up. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s enough. I bite my tongue, nearly choking on the words I want to say. Fine. He wins. She wins.

I’ve fucked up. Badly. Obviously.

Katerina’s Hearth isn’t just some hole-in-the-wall Russian joint. It’s my blind spot. My weakness. The one place where there aren’t any security cameras, where my men aren’t lurking in the shadows. Where I’m just Lyonya , the kid who used to climb through windows for pirozhki .

Clara’s smiling now, leaning over the table with her fingers tracing the menu as if she’s deciphering a damn code. I watch as her eyes narrow, focused, and her lips move silently, trying to sound out the words. Her mouth twitches, almost like she’s mumbling something, before she flips the menu over, searching for a translation. Instead, she’s met with a garish illustration of some Soviet relic—a cartoon bear wielding a balalaika and a bottle of vodka. Her brow furrows, and she flips the menu back, looking up at me with a half-frustrated, half-amused look.

“What’s good here?” she asks, tilting her head.

I repeat the dishes I’d already ordered before they all started giving me shit about it, almost growling. “ Pelmeni with mushroom sauce, borscht , and a side of kholodets. ”

She flashes that smile, her eyes a brilliant, electric blue, like a lightning strike, lighting up with a spark that I feel right in my chest.

“Yes! Can we have two of those, please ?”

“Sure, dear!” Ivan stands up immediately, pushing his chair back with a scrape and heading toward the kitchen.

Galina, already lifting the vodka, pours three shots. Quick. Clean. She slides one toward me, pins me with that look. The kind that makes you sit up straighter whether you want to or not.

“You need a wife,” she says in Russian. “This one. She’s good.”

Govno.