Page 11 of Bratva Sacrifice

“Thanks,” I tell her as I ease away from the counter, and for a fraction of a second her hand lingers in the air as if she is frozen in place. Someone else slots into my place, but Catalina is still stationary, arrested. Unable to summon even a greeting. Even a smile. “I’ll be back,” I say. “For more. If it is good.”

“Uh…” Catalina presses her lips together, still flustered. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” She colors again, gives a tiny shake of her head. “For the tip, I mean.”

I head for the door. Probably there is a trash can close by where I can dispose of this sugary abomination of a drink I don’t want. I will be back anyway, but I want her to wonder.

Little Catalina imagines herself safe. Discreet and anonymous in her new city, hidden beneath the violet apron and the baseball cap and the nametag that reads Cat. Maybe that is what she is. A koshechka; a sweet little kitten. I wonder how long I can keep her sweet, how far I can take this until she finally realizes she has been mine all along. That I have always had her in the palm of my hand. That I have won this game before she even knew she was playing.

Somewhere beneath all that sweetness, I know she must have claws. I can hardly wait until she shows them.

Chapter Six

Catalina

Hey, Cat,” Darren says as he sidles past me to restock the plastic cups. It’s hot out today for Minneapolis; iced coffees have been popular. “Your drawer was over. By a lot.”

Shit. Darren must have balanced the till while I was on my afternoon break. I forgot about the hundred dollar bill that ended up tucked beneath a stack of twenties after the lunch rush. “By about ninety-three dollars?” I ask as I pull the neck of the apron over my head and tie it around my waist.

“More or less,” he says.

“It was a tip. But we didn’t have enough small bills in the register to break it.” I meant to do it before I went on break, but we had a huge rush of people come in, and I forgot about it entirely.

Darren’s brows lift in interest and he abandons the lids he still has left to stock. “Cat. You got a hundred dollar tip?”

“Ninety-two something,” I mumble. “And it’s going into the tip jar. Promise.”

“No way. You were the only one on shift until noon. It’s all yours, babe.” His hands catch up the plastic bag filled with lids, and he tears it open and begins stacking them beside the cups. “Spill. Was he hot?”

I’m flustered all over again. I can feel heat creeping into my cheeks. “How do you know it was a guy?”

“Balance of probability,” he says cheerfully. “In my experience, excessive tipper plus pretty barista usually equals man who wants to impress someone. So—was he hot?”

“Um. Yeah.” It feels strange to admit to it. I feel like I’m confessing to a crime. Papa never let me date, never let anyone get too close to me. I haven’t even had a real friend in longer than I’d care to think about. Like he expected me to be above wanting companionship—any kind of it. But most especially male companionship. “Yeah, he was hot,” I say, and I touch my wrist, where I can almost feel the pressure of his fingers. The heat of them.

“What’d he look like?” Darren asks casually, lowering his voice in deference to the customers quietly reading at their tables. The coffee shop has slowed down a bit, but I know by now that there’ll be another steady stream of people right around rush hour.

“Dark hair. Green eyes.” A jawline sharp enough to cut glass, with just a bit of stubble. A smile with an edge to it, vaguely wolfish in a way that makes me want to shiver when I think about it. Like I can’t quite decide if it’s exciting or terrifying. “Older than me. Maybe thirty? And he had an accent.”

“An accent.” Darren heaves a sigh and fans himself dramatically with one hand. “Love an accent. A sexy one?”

I choke on a flutter of reluctant laughter as I snatch up a rag and busy myself with wiping down the counter top. “Russian, I think?” Something European for sure.

“Stop. You’re killing me.” Darren braces his hands on the countertop and hangs his head. “Are you going to take him? Because if not, I will.”

Another laugh shakes my shoulders. “Come on,” I say. “All I know is his name.” Alexei. “I don’t even know if he’s interested.”

“Cat.” Darren affects a severe expression and puts his hands on my shoulders. “He left you a hundred dollar tip.”

“Ninety-two something,” I interject automatically.

“Trust me,” Darren says, with a little shake of my shoulders. “He’s interested. Did he say anything?”

I lift my shoulders in an awkward shrug. “That he’d be back, if the coffee was good.”

“He’ll definitely be back, then,” Darren says. “Are you interested?”

“I—I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not not interested?” I squeak. The truth is more like I don’t know how to be interested. I’ve never dated. I could never have so much as a hint of a crush on a guy before Papa would run him off. Sooner or later, anyone I showed any interest in just started avoiding me entirely. Like I had the plague or something. I always suspected Papa was reading my emails and monitoring my social media. Eventually I just got rid of it altogether. There was no point to it. “My father—”

“Honey,” Darren says sympathetically. “You have to get out of that mindset. You’re your own woman. You did the hardest part already—you got away. Now you get to live your own life on your own terms. So if you want some time off to actually live it”—Darren gives me a saucy wink—“then you just let me know. I can cover a shift every so often.”