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God, what have I done?
“Wait, all of this is…for lunch?” My voice comes out as a bewildered squeak as I take in the spread before us. Luka has truly outdone himself. The macaroni sits proudly in the center, steam wafting from the creamy, hearty dish. Accompanying it is a bowl of vibrant salad, a symphony of fresh vegetables sprinkled with crumbled feta cheese and coated in a vinaigrette. To round off the feast, a plate of blini – fluffy, bite-sized Russian pancakes served with tangy sour cream and a generous dusting of fresh dill.
This can’t be just lunch. It’s a feast fit for lunch, dinner, breakfast, and repeat.
I blink once, twice, and then a third time, half expecting the vision before me to dissipate. But no, the food remains as real as ever, tantalizing my senses and amplifying the surrealism of the moment.
Luka shoots me a lopsided grin, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Just wanted to show off a bit,” he says casually.
“Show off?” I say, a laugh bubbling up. “This is like…culinary Olympics. Are you sure you don’t have Marco, Paolo, and Antonio stashed in a cupboard somewhere, just popping out to cook and then ‘poof’ disappearing again?”
Luka laughs, a rich, warm sound that fills the kitchen. “Oh, you’re onto me. I am hiding my kitchen crew somewhere around here,” he jokes, playing along with my suspicion.
“Yeah! Let’s eat!” Yulia cheers.
“Alright, let’s get your hands washed first, sweetie,” I say, lifting Yulia onto the counter by the sink. She giggles, her legs kicking back and forth, and I can’t help but return her infectious smile.
“Like this, Sophia?” she asks, her hands rubbing together under the running water.
“Exactly like that, kiddo. You’re a pro!” I compliment, drying her hands with a dish towel. When I glance over my shoulder, my gaze collides with Luka’s. There’s an unexpected tenderness in his eyes, a warmth that feels like a gentle caress against my skin. There’s a softness there that catches me off guard. It’s a quiet kind of intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. He’s looking at me as if—
No, it’s probably just my imagination.
“Alright, Yulia. Ready to chow down on that macaroni?” I ask, swiftly changing my focus.
In one fluid motion, Luka strolls over and hoists Yulia into his arms, placing a smacking kiss on her rosy cheek. A sound that could only be described as pure, unadulterated glee explodes from Yulia, lighting up the room in a way no chandelier ever could.
The scene feels unreal, like I’ve somehow crash-landed in the middle of a family sitcom. But this isn’t television, and there are no commercial breaks coming to relieve the tension building within me. The jovial brother, the innocent child – their joyous laughter at odds with the spiraling thoughts in my mind.
“Did I tell you, Sophia?” Yulia suddenly pipes up, turning her bright, expectant gaze on me. “Next week, it’s my birthday!” She practically bounces with excitement.
Next week? Hell. I don’t even know if I’d be around in the next hour.
I feel like a fraud, smiling and nodding at this little girl, knowing what I have in store. I can barely stomach the thought, my conscience screaming at me like a siren in the night.
“Now, malyška, remember when I told you about the cake Mama used to make for me on my birthday?” Luka asks, setting her down but keeping an arm wrapped around her small shoulders. His voice holds a tenderness that somehow keeps surprising me. Yulia’s face scrunches up in thought, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth adorably.
“Oh! The one with the chocolate and cherries?” she finally exclaims, looking up at her older brother with sparkling eyes.
Luka’s smile is warm as he nods. “That’s right. We’ll bake the same one for your birthday, malyška,” he says, pulling her closer. “Just like Mama used to.”
There is a flicker of something in Luka’s gaze as he speaks about their mother, a subtle softening of the edges that makes him seem less like a feared mob boss and more like a…like a man.
“Luka, can we go visit Mama and Papa today?”
Visit Mama and Papa?
Somehow, I’d assumed they were dead.
“Of course, malyška. We can take a walk there after lunch.” Luka’s smile doesn’t falter, but I notice something change in his expression.
Why did he speak about them in past tense if they’re still around?
Before I can voice my questions, Yulia changes the topic with her usual effervescence. “Sophia, you’re coming to my birthday party, right? I’m going to be eight!” She holds up eight fingers, her grin so wide it could light up the whole damn place.
A strange tightness settles at the base of my throat. The invitation is so simple, so innocent. But I’m far from either. If things go the way I plan, I won’t be around for the party.
I flash her a quick grin, all the while wrestling with my conflicting emotions.
