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It was the winning argument.
Viktor nodded and turned his attention to Roman. “And you? Why do you want to marry my Valeriya?”
I have no intention of marrying your daughter, would not look twice at her on the street despite her beauty.
His days of compliance were almost over. But not quite yet.
“My life is dedicated to the bratva, like my father and his father before him,” I said. “What’s best for the organization is best for me.”
“How romantic,” Valeriya said with a raise of her finely shaped eyebrows.
He looked at her. “We don’t know each other. Shall we pretend or call it what it is — a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”
She tipped her head, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Honesty is a virtue.” Her eyes raked his body. “One of many you seem to possess.”
“Shall we continue the discussion then,lisichka?” Viktor asked Valeriya.
Roman spoke very little Russian, but he recognized the term of endearment —little fox— from hearing Vera, the Kalshaniks’ housekeeper, use it with her grandson.
“I think we shall,” she said, her eyes still on Roman.
Little fox indeed.
2
RUBY
Ruby Bishop was grateful for every customer who came in to Roasted — the cheerful ones, the grumpy ones, the distracted ones. They all gave her something to focus on besides the phone in her pocket, burning with angry messages from Adam, her ex-husband.
She smiled at the middle-aged man who’d just ordered a double espresso and wished him a nice day, watching as the short line shuffled forward to fill his absence.
She recognized her next customer immediately, a regular named Shani who always came in with her daughter on the way to school and work.
“Good morning!” Ruby said, genuinely happy to see them. It was what she loved about her job — the little community, like a fleeting micro-family, all of them in the trenches of life together, fortifying each other with caffeine, cheerful small talk, and the occasional sugar rush from Roasted’s stale treats (Ruby hated that Lou, the owner, had them shipped in from a big-box store and forced the staff to lay them out in the glass case like they were special, only to mark them up five times for Roasted’s customers).
“Look Nyah,” Shani said, holding her daughter’s hand. Nearly six feet tall and immaculately dressed with dark hair and cheekbones for days, Shani could have been a supermodel. “It’s Ruby!”
The little girl smiled shyly up at Ruby.
“Good morning, Nyah,” Ruby said, taking in the girl’s outfit, a sweet little dress with a matching headband that couldn’t tame her glorious dark curls. “I love your headband.”
The girl smiled wider and shuffled on her feet. “Bibi got it for me.”
Ruby knew Bibi was Nyah’s Swahili grandmother, because she’d come in with Shani and Nyah one morning before an award ceremony at school. “Well, your Bibi has very good taste.” She looked at Shani. “The usual?”
“Make it a double,” Shani said. “This one has decided she prefers our bed, and she sleeps like a starfish.”
Ruby laughed. “You got it.”
“Hey,” Shani said, studying Ruby’s face, “you okay?”
Ruby paused, surprised. “Definitely. Why?”
“You look a little pale,” Shani said, adding quickly, “Oh my god, that was rude! I’m sorry. I was just concerned.”
Ruby smiled. “Not at all. It’s sweet of you to notice. Just… you know. Ex stuff.”
It was a rule Ruby didn’t normally break — talking about her personal life — but Shani had been coming to Roasted for years, since Nyah was just a baby, and Ruby was feeling off thanks to the phone burning a hole in the pocket of her jeans.
