Page 4 of The Devil’s Feather

Elaine, fucking stop it. What on earth was I thinking, being jealous of a total stranger who’d done nothing to me? The barista had sweet, friendly vibes, and here I was acting like a harpy.

Rafael turned to me. “Do you like Turkish coffee, or would you prefer something else?”

“I love Turkish coffee! And sweet, please, but like half sweet?”

The barista leaned around him and flashed a brilliant smile. “He’s also buying you the milk cake. It’s the best thing we make.” Her musical accent only increased her charm.

Rafael muttered something irritable in their shared language. She jabbed a finger at the bake case, then at his face.

He sighed in defeat. “Do you like pastries, Elaine? You are welcome to order any⁠—”

“Of course she does! Go, go, I’ll bring it to your spot.” The barista waved us away.

Her enthusiasm was infectious. I’d just eat the cake and deal with the tummy fallout later; I always had Lactaid and Benadryl in my purse. Hopefully, the gods of food tolerance would look upon me with favor.

Rafael nodded toward a sturdy-looking divan upholstered in tufted burgundy velvet, situated against the far wall. A young man with a book and an empty teacup occupied it. The pretty barista came out and fussed at the man in that same language. He argued until his eyes lit on the approaching giant and quickly decided he had better places to be.

“Is it like this everywhere you go?” I tracked the young man’s disappearance through the side door. A little concerning, if my erstwhile new friend felt entitled to VIP treatment.

“Yusuf works here,” Rafael said.

“And Yusuf’s break was over 20 minutes ago,” the barista chimed in from behind the espresso machines in a singsong voice clearly meant to reach Yusuf’s ears.

Rafael settled onto the divan, leaning against the single arm with the ease of long familiarity.

As no other seating presented itself, I perched beside him. “I take it you come here a lot.”

“He owns the whole building,” the barista sang out.

My eyes popped wide. This entire historical landmark building? In this city? My vague estimation of his net worth shot up.

“Zainab!” Rafael barked, his face distorting into a fierce scowl. “You know damn well not to tell anyone that.”

“You are welcome for the help!” The barista—Zainab—peered around the machines and winked theatrically at me. “You must tell me if Mr. Nazim is mean to you. This awful man is all vinegar.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

“Like the little sister I never wanted,” he grumbled.

I giggled. “You did say you were a grumpy bastard. Was that your first language?”

“No, Turkish is my first.”

How could I have forgotten Rafael Nazim was Turkish? Thank god he didn’t quiz me.

He twisted to glare at the kitchen and raised his voice. “I speak Arabic here because Zainab cannot be assed to learn Turkish in a fucking Turkish coffee shop!”

The clinking of dishes in the kitchen grew distinctly louder.

If I’d had a fan, I would have shamelessly used it on myself. “Not a polyglot, too! How many languages do you speak?”

“Seven fluently. Turkish, Arabic, Italian, English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. I am passingly conversational in Farsi and Greek, and I have enough Russian to pick a fight.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Romance languages are easy once you learn the first one.”

Romance, indeed. “Damn, I should brush up on my Spanish.”

“You should.” Rafael tilted his head. “Bir dil bir insan, iki dil iki insan. Turkish saying; ‘One person, one language. Two people, two languages.’ Speak more, and you become more.”

“I like that.”

Zainab bustled over a with two cezves full of steaming coffee, matching cups, and an enormous serving of the milk cake. A pink, gelatinous cube coated with powdered sugar rested on each saucer. As Rafael opened his mouth, she shushed him.