32. Katerina
Chapter thirty-two
Katerina
I've only ever passed through New York City in controlled contexts: visiting a friend in Upper Manhattan once during college, or hurriedly cabbing from Penn Station to a midtown event. I've never, in my entire life, taken the subway to Bushwick carrying a folder that might decide my future.
But that's exactly what I'm doing on a damp Saturday morning, the Amtrak ride behind me, city noise greeting me at every turn.
I'd spent the journey mentally rehearsing the conversation I planned to have, but now, stepping onto the sidewalk by the Jefferson Street station, I find that my mind feels strangely blank.
Well. Not blank, precisely. There's adrenaline in my bloodstream, my thoughts a flurry of to-do list items: offer greeting, present documentary treatment, gauge Bex's reaction, do not panic.
My phone's GPS tells me the shop is three blocks away. I walk, dodging a small group of tourists in search of street art, dodging a cyclist weaving between pedestrians. I note the crispness of the early autumn air, the graffiti that covers brick walls, the vibrant pulses of color.
Then I turn onto the next block and see the mural. It covers an entire building face, bold lines and sweeping shapes that demand attention. I pause mid-step to let the image sink in. I have an urge to photograph it, to capture the color and the loudness it holds. But I also want to keep moving.
Across from the mural is a coffee roaster, its door propped open, letting out the scent of fresh beans.
Next to that, a bright little shop with succulents in the window.
And at the end of the row, I spot a sign that reads RUSSO & CO.
TATTOO in clean, legible lettering. The small font beneath adds: Custom & Traditional.
I slow. The storefront has large windows revealing a well-lit interior, though I can only see part of the front desk from here. There's a portfolio book on display, open to a page featuring a floral design. The sign on the door says Closed, but the lights are on inside.
It looks serious. Professional. Perfectly inviting in a direct, no-nonsense way. Of course Bex would have a shop that reflects that matter-of-fact charm.
I draw in a breath, rooted to the pavement, uncertain whether to let myself have one more moment of calm or just go in. I end up standing there, blinking at the shop sign, feeling something else entirely well up behind my eyes.
It strikes me how easily I could see this place as a scene in my hypothetical documentary: footage showing the outside of Russo & Co.
Tattoo, Bex behind the counter, the city's music throbbing all around.
And there's a flutter of excitement in my chest. I recognize the feeling, the spark of thinking like a filmmaker, not a wedding planner.
I run a quick mental note: a wide shot, capturing pedestrians, the mural in the background, the sign reading Closed for Consultations. A small thrill seizes me.
I exhale. Then I reach for the handle and step inside.
The scent hits me first: that mix of ink, disinfectant, and something else metallic, the same combination that filled Nico's studio in New Orleans.
The memory of that night, my first spontaneous tattoo, the reckless vow that followed, slams into my senses before my brain has time to form rational compartments.
I'm in a different city now, a different context, but my heart pounds all the same. Because Bex is behind the counter, eyes lifting the moment I walk through the door.
I try to greet her, but the words cling to my throat. Instead I just pause, letting the door close behind me with a quiet click.
Bex has one hand braced on the edge of the desk, the other shoved into the pocket of dark jeans.
She's wearing a T-shirt from some local band, the sleeves rolled up enough to reveal the lines of ink along her forearms in crisp focus.
Her black hair is tousled, like she's been running her hands through it all morning.
And her face. Her eyebrows lift the smallest fraction, maybe a second of surprise or apprehension. Her expression is careful, but not closed off.
My chest goes tight. I recognize the shape of her mouth, the subtle press of her lips when she's trying not to give away everything at once. Something in my body responds immediately: a twist low in my belly, a wave of warmth pulsing behind my rib cage.
I try to file that sensation away as nerves, but it feels like more than that.
"Hey," Bex says quietly.
"Hey," I echo, clearing my throat.
The single syllable feels monumental. Two small letters, bridging weeks of silence.
I force my posture straight. I want to maintain calm, to remain the professional version of myself. But I also want Bex to know that I'm present here, not just in the role of wedding planner or event orchestrator.
"You made it," Bex says, almost an observation rather than a greeting.
I nod. "Yeah." I glance around, letting my gaze flick across the shop's interior.
Clean counters with an array of sanitized equipment, a wall of framed sketches, some geometric, some floral, some mythological.
Then there's the waiting area with well-worn leather chairs, meticulously tidied.
I notice a faint scuff on the floor near the back station, maybe from the pivot of a stool.
My eyes keep drifting back to Bex anyway.
I try to approach the counter casually, but my heartbeat hammers in my ears. "Thank you for letting me come by," I say, voice low.
The corner of Bex's mouth tugs up in something that might be a wry smile or just the ghost of one. "Well, you did ask."
I inhale slowly. I recognize that this is banter if I want it to be, but only the mildest kind. The real conversation hovers just beneath.
"I did," I say. Then, after a moment of hesitation: "I, uh, I brought something for you to look at."
I run a hand over my satchel, slung across my body. Inside it is the folder containing my entire documentary treatment, all eight pages plus a new page I'd added last night about potential interview questions. I pull it out carefully, placing it on the counter so the small typed label faces Bex.
Her eyes flick to the label, Russo Documentary Draft, and something in her expression shifts.
I try not to read it as fear or annoyance, but it's definitely heavy.
I cough into my hand. "I've been working on it for the past couple of weeks.
" I pause to choose my words carefully. "I want to make a documentary about your family.
The real story. Your parents' journey immigrating here, building a business, the effect of that on you and Sofia.
How you each navigate competing expectations, maybe.
Obviously, it's a big ask. I'd need your family to participate, share their stories. "
Bex stays quiet, gaze locked on the folder.
I wet my lips and press on, aware that my voice sounds almost too even, like I'm reading from a prepared script.
"I realize this isn't a small favor. And there's probably going to be pushback, especially from your father.
" I exhale. "I understand if you say no.
But I wanted you to see the draft first, to know what I'm actually envisioning. "
I slide the folder closer. "If you're willing, I'd really like your input. And Sofia's. And your parents', though I can imagine that conversation might be complicated."
Bex still holds silent. She lifts the folder, flipping it open, scanning the first page. My pulse trips over itself, as though each breath requires extra effort.
I find myself noticing the shape of her hands, broad knuckles, the faint ink stains near the nail beds. I remember those hands so clearly from the night they pressed a sweaty piece of paper into mine in that New Orleans chapel.
She turns the next page. Silence, except for the faint hum of a small floor fan in the corner. I have to remind myself to breathe.
Then Bex reaches the final page. She sets the folder down gently, flattening her palm over the typed lines. She doesn't speak for a long moment.
When she does, her voice is soft, but laced with wry acceptance. "My dad is going to hate this idea."
I nod. "I know."
"He'll panic about old family issues surfacing, about losing face in front of extended relatives, that kind of stuff."
I inhale. "I know," I repeat. "But your sister seems open. And your mother, maybe she'd consider it. I'm hoping that once everyone sees the approach, they'll trust me not to exploit anything."
Bex lets her hand slip off the folder, then laces her fingers together on the counter. "He'll probably come around," she says, though she doesn't sound entirely convinced. "He's stubborn, but once he's in, he's in. He might even end up bragging about it if it goes well."
My mouth curves in a hesitant smile. "I would love that outcome."
A beat of near silence. Then Bex's eyes flick to me, and an undercurrent of something else, something personal, moves between us. My own breath catches.
"This is the real work, isn't it?" Bex says, voice softer, but no less direct. "The thing you actually wanted to do all along."
My throat tightens. "Yes," I say. I try not to let my voice tremble. "Yes, it is."
Bex nods slowly, something like respect in her posture. "What else did you want to say?"
The question hovers in the air, so stark that I literally feel my chest constrict. I realize I'm clutching the strap of my satchel like a security blanket. I ease my grip and force my hand to the countertop instead.
"I," I begin, then pause. I need to do this right, not bury it under disclaimers.
I look at Bex, properly, for the first time since walking in, truly meeting her gaze. Something in that moment feels as if the city has gone quiet outside, all that bustle and noise suddenly distant.