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“They have the best selection of beans sourced from some of the most renowned coffee-growing regions around the world.”
I balk at Luka. He doesn’t come across as a man worried about where his coffee is sourced. In fact, the idea that Luka gets his own coffee is something I never considered. But, when he walks up to the counter with ease and familiarity, I realize this is another layer of Luka, one that he doesn’t share with others.
A handful of coffee enthusiasts chatter among the few scattered tables. Their drinks have an elegance to them, and between the smells and their caffeinated smiles, I’m practically salivating when Luka pulls me to the counter.
“Hey Luka,” the woman says, and I snap my gaze to him.
Luka. She called him Luka—I thought people didn’t do that. A small pang in my gut has me chewing on my lip. I guess it wasn’t as special to be able to call him by his first name as I thought.
“Hi Sarah. I’ll have a macchiato and whatever she would like.” He pauses and moves aside, allowing me to scoot up to the counter.
“I’ll have a double shot latte please,” I say, careful not to stare too hard at this beautiful woman on a first-name basis with Luka.Sarah.
Luka hands over some cash, and it all plays out so normal. This can’t be, can it? Do I picture Luka stopping by Sip & Savor on his way to torture a man? Nope. I can’t. I must be looking at him funny, because his eyes meet mine.
“What?” he says, narrowing his eyes on my cheeks.
“Nothing.”
We head to an open table to wait for our drinks. Luka types out some messages on his phone and I peruse the art hanging above our table.
When he notices my interest, he points to the flat, grassy plains oil painting above our table.
"Much of Russia is made up of these treeless steppes, stretching across the country."
There is a tiny silver plaque under the painting titled,The Vast Grasslandsby a Russian named artist.
"It’s beautiful," I say, lost for words. Who is this man? A powerful leader in a small coffee shop, educating me on the landscape of his home country.
"She is." He says, eyes pinned to my mouth. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I scramble for something—anything.
"Do you get to travel back there often?" I ask.
"Nyet, not nearly enough." He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.
"How does that work? You being here as the pak—as the leader of your organization?"
"Several generations ago, we operated out of Russia. Each year, more business was sent to the United States, and it made sense to have people here. The more business grew, the more people migrated over." He picks a piece of invisible lint off his suit.
"The less of our presence in Russia, the more splinter groups formed, filling the void. Eventually, the pakhan and their families came to New York."
I soak up all this information. Luka opening up—sharing with me—it’s incredible.
"The Morozov family estate is still there. Nik’s father oversees the property and security, and we still maintain a tight network of loyalty," he says.
"I’m shocked there is enough business for you here."
Luka snorts. "You’d be surprised at the depravity of your nation,malyshka."
Sarah delivers our drinks, and my latte is decorated with an impressive fern. I take a sip and moan at the taste. The cold chill that parked itself in my body melts away, and the warm drink floods my belly. Luka is looking at my mouth again, and I flush with embarrassment.
“I have another proposition for you.” Luka’s voice is serious, and it clashes with the soft jazz tunes playing in the coffee shop.
My body tenses at those words. The last proposition he offered was made for him to keep me around. It was worth it one hundred times over to get my mom the help she needs, but I can’t imagine he’d want me to stay.
“I need you to stay with me,” he says.
I mull those words over.I need you to stay with me,not want you to stay. My coffee suddenly has a bitter taste on my tongue.
