Page 43 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I’m halfway through a cup of coffee when the front door opens.

Oksana steps inside, shaking the rain from her coat. There’s something different about her today. She isn’t in her usual uniform. Instead, she’s wearing gray jeans and a loose white blouse.

“Good morning,” she says, hanging her coat by the door. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“You’re right on time.”

She moves to the kitchen and begins unpacking a bag I didn’t notice she was carrying. I see fresh fruit, pastries, and a carton of eggs. Roman has a chef, but Oksana knows I prefer to make my own breakfasts. She works with the same efficiency she always had at the mansion, but there’s something more relaxed about it now.

“Roman asked me to keep you company today,” she says, setting a box of croissants on the counter. “And to make sure you have something other than coffee.”

“I was going to eat.”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me.

I set my coffee aside. “Where is he, did he say?”

“He didn’t.” She pauses in her unpacking. “Business, that’s all he ever says.”

Too right.

I pick at a croissant while Oksana finishes putting away the groceries. “Get dressed,” she says when she’s done. “We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“For coffee. Real coffee, not that instant stuff you’ve been drinking.”

I look down at my cup. “This isn’t bad.”

“You must miss that little café on Richardson Street.” She shoos me toward the bedroom. “Go. I’ll clean up here.”

She’s right, of course. I do miss that café; it has these cute booths in shades of aquamarine, and tealights that turn the world a hazy gold. Not to mention, it has the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.

Besides, a chance to get out of this penthouse isn’t something I’ll pass up.

I decide to change into something more appropriate for leaving the penthouse. After a minute of deliberation, I change into wide-cut jeans and a yellow top. It’s more summery than the weather demands, but I need to feel normal.

When I emerge, Oksana is waiting by the door with an umbrella.

The rain has slowed to a fine mist. We walk the two blocks to Hot Shot Café. The place is warm and crowded. The scent of espresso immediately hits me. God, I’ve missed this.

We find a table in the corner and order our drinks. I wrap my hands around the warm cup and let the heat seep into my fingers.

“Tell me about him,” I say. “Roman.”

Oksana’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in her eyes. A carefulness that wasn’t there before. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything.” I take a sip of my coffee. “He told me some things about his exile. I feel like I’m only getting pieces of the story.”

“That’s because he only gives pieces.” She stirs her tea, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cup. “Roman has always been private. Even when he was young, he kept things close.”

“What was he like before?”

Oksana considers the question, her gaze drifting to the window, to the rain sliding down the glass.

“Roman was softer,” she says finally.

I almost laugh. “Roman?”