The second drink comes. This time she sips. For about thirty seconds. Then she finishes it too.
I should stop her.
I’ve stopped men for less. I’ve taken bottles from captains, brothers, soldiers, idiots with guns in their waistbands and grief in their mouths. It’s easy to control a room when people are afraid of what happens if they test you.
But Katerina is not mine to control. Not yet.
Not ever,some sane part of me says.
She orders a third. Then, when the server brings it, she reaches into her handbag and pulls out a card.
“I’m paying for these.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re not buying my ticket and my drinks.”
“I already bought the ticket.”
“And I will pay you back.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will and I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
“Then let me pay for the vodka.”
I look at her card.
I turn to the server. “Put the drinks on her card.”
Her surprise is quick. Then suspicion follows. “That was easy.”
“I choose my battles.”
“And this isn’t one?”
“No,” I say. “This is a woman buying three drinks she cannot handle.”
“I can handle vodka.”
“You’re holding the glass with both hands.”
She looks down, and sees I am absolutely right. Her lips part, then she laughs.
It’s softer than before. Less controlled. The vodka has warmed her, loosened something at the edges. The sound travels under my skin with more force than it should.
Bad decision, Roman.Very bad.
The third drink stays half-full for a while.
She talks more. She talks about Russia.
