27. Chapter 27

27

Clara

I catch every word they say in Russian, but I keep my face blank.

I push the menu aside, drum my fingers on the table. Smile back at Galina like I’m just another clueless American who can’t understand shit. Wife? Over my dead body—which, considering who’s sitting across from me, isn’t exactly off the table.

Galina slides the bowl between us. “ Zakuska , for the vodka.” Pickles glisten in the brine.

“ Na zdorovie !” Galina lifts her shot glass. I mirror her, playing follow-the-leader. Next to me, Leonid’s fingers curl around his glass, his thigh a line of heat against mine. Three shots, three killers—though only one of us wears it on her sleeve.

I watch Galina smile without showing her teeth. No one moves that fast at her age unless they’ve spent a lifetime dodging bullets. Her eyes give it away—too sharp, too quick.

Her eyes tell a tale of violence and survival, a story I know all too well. Just like mine, once upon a time.

“Drink!” Steel under sugar. She watches me over her glass, probably counting the ways I could fuck up her precious Leonid. Like throwing me at him will fix whatever’s broken inside him.

The first shot burns, but I don’t flinch. Neither does he. Our eyes lock over the rims of our glasses, and for a second—just a second—I see something shift in that cold stare.

The vodka glass clinks against my teeth. His dark eyes bore into mine, unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey. I break first, focusing on the pickle bowl instead. Anything to escape that stare.

“So, Clara,” Galina’s eyes twinkle like she’s about to share state secrets, “what do you think of our Leonid?”

I stab a pickle, waving it in his direction.

“He’s a dick,” I say flatly, and then bite into it—only to realize, too late, it’s a carrot. The unexpected sweetness hits my tongue, and I suppress a grimace. I chew, swallowing quickly.

Leonid leans back, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Says the woman who’s been stalking me for fourteen years,” he drawls. “I must be growing on you.”

I roll my eyes but can’t ignore the spark flickering in his gaze. “Hah, you wish.” This time, I spear an actual pickle and lift it slowly to eye level. Without breaking his stare, I part my lips and slide it between them, the crunch echoing in the sudden quiet. Sour floods my mouth, sharp enough to make my jaw clench.

Leonid watches me swallow, his lips twitching just enough to shift his face—softer, younger. Almost… happy.

Why the hell would he look happy?

But then, as if realizing he’s let something slip, his jaw tightens, and the hint of a smile vanishes. He glances away first, inspecting his empty glass like it holds state secrets.

“Ah!” Galina’s already pouring another round. “You two remind me of my good old days!”

“Your… good old days?” I arch a brow, leaning back.

“ Da !” She sets the vodka bottle down with a decisive thunk. “When I met my Ivan in Moscow. I was supposed to kill him, you know. Instead…” She wiggles her eyebrows like she’s about to launch into a steamy, spy-thriller romance.

Leonid groans. “ Tyo-tya Galina, please .” He’s leaning back in his chair, but his thigh stays pressed against mine. Thick, solid muscle, too warm against my bare skin, like he doesn’t even notice—or maybe he does.

But damn, it’s… distracting. I sneak a glance, side-eyeing him in disbelief. Is that a thigh or a steel beam? A log, maybe? For the love of all things sane, no one’s leg should be built like that.

I don’t move. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting. But the moment he shifts away, I let out a quiet breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

That’s when the scent hits me. Rich, savory—garlic, onions, and something roasted, spilling out from the kitchen like Ivan’s trying to lure us in with pure temptation. My stomach growls, the vodka sinking heavier with each breath. I’m hungry, lightheaded, and the sharp tang of alcohol has started to buzz in my veins. It makes the room tilt, just for a second, like the whole place is holding its breath.

Galina tugs at the knot of her apron, adjusting it as if she’s settling in for something serious. Her fingers brush Leonid’s hand, small against his, but he doesn’t move.

I glance at his hand, then quickly look away, only to glance back again. Damn it. I swallow a lump of… saliva. Must be the vodka, but suddenly, I’m noticing things I shouldn’t. Like how big his hand actually is.

It’s not just big—it’s strong. Broad, with long fingers that flex slightly, veins running along the back like a roadmap.

He shifts, rolling up his sleeve, and I swear the air in the room changes. Thick forearm, corded with muscle, the veins more prominent now. It’s the kind of hand that could wrap around a glass—or my entire neck—with ease.

I grab my glass and take a quick sip as if that’ll drown out the ridiculous thoughts bubbling in my head.

“Did you know our little Lyonya loves animals? Such a soft heart, that boy.” Galina’s face lights up, beaming with pride. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she clasps her hands together like she’s just announced her grandson won a Nobel Prize. “He’s the sweetest!”

I blink, caught off guard. “What, now?”

Placing my glass down, I make the mistake of glancing at his hand again. Stupid, sexy man hand—big, broad, and entirely too distracting. My gaze drifts up, tracing the veins that disappear under his rolled-up sleeve, and I cock my head at Leonid.

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking like he’s fighting to keep control. “This conversation is over…”

But Galina leans in, conspiratorial. “He wanted to be a veterinarian.” Her voice drops like she’s revealing classified intel. “Can you imagine?”

That explains the peacocks. And the snakes. What’s next—penguins?

A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and involuntary. “A vet?” I glance at Leonid, catching the briefest flicker of irritation—or maybe embarrassment.

“Until his father decided killing was more important than healing—”

“ Bozhe moy . Not another word,” Leonid hisses. He sets the vodka glass down with a quiet, deliberate clink .

The silence between them stretches.

Leonid reaches for the vodka once more, his fingers wrapping around the glass, but he doesn’t drink. Galina’s hand comes down lightly on his shoulder, her palm brushing the fabric before she gives him a soft pat. He stiffens, but only for a moment.

“You’ve carried enough, Lyonya ,” she says.

His hand shifts to the bottle, turning it just slightly, the glass base scraping against the table. He doesn’t look at her.

“You know,” I say, jabbing my fork at him, the pickle skewered like it’s backing me up, “I always thought you wanted to be the mafia boss. The power, the throne, an endless supply of vodka—it’s got your name written all over it.”

Leonid rubs the back of his neck, fingers lingering there for a moment as though grounding himself. He shifts back in his chair, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a thought.

“Not everything’s about power,” he says, his hand finally letting go of the glass.

Galina glances at me, then back to him, her fingers brushing over the edge of his sleeve.

“Your father,” she starts softly, pausing as if picking her words carefully, “he wanted you to lead, Leonid. Even after your mother…” She trails off, glancing down, her mouth tightening.

Leonid’s Adam’s apple dips, slow and deliberate, as a nerve flicks along his neck. “He wanted me to survive.”

I lean back, crunching into the pickle, the sharp tang giving me something to focus on.

“So,” I say, trying to lighten the mood… not because I need to know him better or anything. “What’s this thing about your twin trying to kill you? Not enough room on the throne?”

The moment stretches taut again, Leonid’s gaze snapping to me. His neck shifts, veins rising subtly as he swallows hard. His hand hovers over the vodka glass for a second too long before he picks it up and takes a slow drink. “You don’t need to know.”

“Actually, I do,” I counter, my voice tight despite the sarcasm. “Enlighten me—since apparently almost killing me earlier wasn’t enough to make your point.”

Galina sighs, her hand still on his shoulder. “I promised your father I wouldn’t tell you,” she murmurs, the apology hanging between them like smoke. Her hand squeezes gently before pulling away. “But maybe I should have. It was… for your protection.”

Leonid shakes his head once, sharply. “Enough, Galina.”

But I’m not letting it go. “You’re not the only one with daddy issues,” I mutter, the words escaping before I can stop them. Both their eyes snap to me, and I suddenly feel the weight of their attention like a spotlight.

I push the empty pickle plate aside and settle into my seat, resting my elbows on the table.

“I didn’t know anything about my father or my brother running the New Orleans crime scene,” I say. “Not until the day Jake and I were hunted down. Not until the… fake Raven put a bullet in him.”

The fucking memory weighs down on me like an anchor; I clench my jaw, fix my gaze on the table, and let the silence turn to a fucking funeral dirge.

“You can’t change the past,” Galina says finally. “Focus on the present. And on your son.”

“You think I don’t?” The words come out angrier than I intended, but I don’t apologize. “I’m going to find out who killed Jake. End of story.”

“Then what?” Leonid asks. His gaze is steady—no hint of teasing. Just something raw. “What happens after?”

“At least your brother’s still alive,” I snap, locking eyes with his. “Mine’s dead.”

Something shifts in his expression. His brow softens, eyes warming with what looks too much like understanding. Like fucking pity.

No.

My throat closes up, vision blurring. Goddammit, not now. I jerk my head away, blinking hard. He doesn’t get to see this. Doesn’t get to watch me crack like some broken thing that needs fixing.

Weak. Pathetic. Jake would’ve—

In my head, I see it clear as day—like I have every night for fourteen years. A bullet through the killer’s head, then another through his heart. Simple. Clean. The way Jake’s death wasn’t. The way I’ve planned since I was fifteen, screaming myself hoarse in the woods.

Suddenly, all I see is red.

I thought having Elijah would soften the edges. Dull the pain. Maybe even give me something new to hold on to. It does. But right now, with their eyes on me, it feels like I’m back in that moment—raw, bleeding, and ready to destroy everything in my path.

That day in the woods, I stopped being a kid. Started being a weapon. Now all I’ve got left is this—find out who took the only person who ever loved me.