Chapter 12
TWELVE
Dmitry
The burger joint is loud, greasy, and perfect. Neon lights buzz over the counter. The air smells like salt and smoke, and the chatter of college students fills every corner. This is not the kind of place I expected Callista to bring me to for our unofficial second date.
Callista sits across from me in a booth, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes bright under the cheap yellow light. She looks wildly out of place and yet completely at home.
There’s a smear of ketchup on her wrist, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. She bites into her burger too fast, and a piece of lettuce slips out and lands on her T-shirt.
I laugh quietly. “You’re a mess.”
“Am not,” she says, though her words are muffled by food.
I lean over the table, wipe the ketchup off her lip with my thumb.
Her mouth parts slightly in surprise, and I see the faint flush rise on her skin.
I take a napkin next and dab at the red spot on her shirt before she can do it herself.
Taking care of her comes naturally to me.
I don’t know why that is. When she’s honest and vulnerable, she awakens my masculine instinct to protect.
I like doing these small things for her, feeling like I’m contributing to her life in small, meaningful ways.
Her eyes flick up, uncertain, soft.
She’s beautiful in a way that hurts a little. It’s not about the makeup or the dress. It’s how she looks when she forgets to be perfect. When she lets herself laugh, unguarded. When she talks with her hands and drops crumbs everywhere.
“I didn’t think a girl like you would eat burgers,” I say. “I was thinking you’d pick someplace bougie.”
She swallows, wipes her fingers. “A girl like me?”
“Polished. Perfect. The kind who drinks smoothies with kale and lectures people about calories.”
She grins, reaching for her fries. “You clearly don’t know me. I love burgers. In case you can’t tell from the way I’m devouring this one.”
“I can tell.” I take a bite of mine, still watching her. “You’re adorable when you eat like that.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m admiring you. You’re cute. For a fake girlfriend.”
She shakes her head, smiling, but I can see her cheeks warm.
There’s something grounding about this. The two of us sitting in a sticky booth, sharing fries, the normalcy of it.
I haven’t felt normal in years. Callista makes me hope for a life I might never have.
It’s as scary as all the things she makes me feel.
My goes to places it has never gone to before when she’s with me.
Some dark places. And some really wholesome places that would make my brothers laugh.
I wonder how it’d be to be old, our hair white, and still smiling while eating burgers.
To be able to enjoy good food and each other at that age seems like the kind of romantic wish that teenage girls wish for.
In the brutal world of the bratva, most men don’t even live to be that old.
Especially men in power. Leo has been through a lot of near-brushes with death. And if I take his place, my life will be in danger constantly. Not that it isn’t now. We have enemies, but they would probably pick Aleksei or Leo to kill first, not me. I work behind the scenes. That keeps me hidden.
Callista leans forward, elbows on the table. Her sweet voice cuts through my depressing thoughts. “So, who are the students you’re recruiting?”
I pull out my phone and show her a list. “A few finance majors. One computer science student. They all have what I need—numbers brains, connections, or access to data. Most of them have heavy debt and difficult family situations. That makes them easier to bring in. Getting a traditional job will be difficult for a few of them. They’ll like my offer. ”
Her smile fades. “You make it sound like you’re rescuing them by exploiting them.”
“Maybe I am,” I say simply. “But they’ll get paid. They’ll belong somewhere. That’s more than most people get.”
She studies me, curious. “You’re strategic. You know how to use people to get what you want.”
“My brother says that too.”
“Because it’s true.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s just obvious. Doesn’t everybody know that’s how people think?”
She tilts her head. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“It is simple.” I glance at her. “You just have to stop expecting fairness.”
She sighs, then smiles faintly. “Maybe that’s why I like being around you. You’re so real. My parents pretend to love me in front of other people, but they’re so fake. They only care about themselves. At least with you, what I see is what I get.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
She takes another bite, ketchup smudging her thumb. I’m mesmerized by small, ordinary things: the curve of her mouth as she chews, the little hum she makes when she likes the food, the way she looks up at me between bites, soft and warm and entirely unaware of what she’s doing to me.
“You really like this place,” I say.
“I like how it has that casual college vibe,” she replies. “No one here is pretending to be something they’re not.”
“Except us,” I say.
Her gaze meets mine. “Maybe not.”
The words linger between us, heavier than they should be.
I take a sip of Coke to hide the way my chest tightens.
She changes the subject. “What are your plans? After you graduate.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’ll end up running a big operation. An organized crime empire. My brother says I’m good with numbers. Maybe one day, I’ll be running everything.”
She goes quiet.
I don’t tell her the rest, that when I imagine that future, she’s there too. Standing beside me, throwing galas, looking beautiful, filling the hollow places I’ve carried for years. I don’t say how much I want her laughter in those dark spaces, or her softness to balance everything I’ve become.
She’s still silent, looking down at her drink.
“That sounds like a big responsibility,” she says.
I cough. “No shit. If I take over, I’ll run half the West Coast. I’ll be rich and powerful. We might meet someday, if you develop a drug habit. Or not.”
“I just don’t know what to say,” she admits.
“Because the idea of you in that world… scares me. But also…” She trails off, eyes glistening faintly.
“I wish I’ll still be part of your life.
Even if it’s just a small part. Maybe you’ll come to my charity events when I’m an event planner, and we’ll see each other from across the room.
You’ll pretend not to know me, but you will.
And we’ll never really be rid of each other. ”
My heart clenches. I smile, but it feels bittersweet. “I’d like that. To never be rid of you.”
It aches to know how much I mean it. Every conversation with Callista deepens the knowing inside me. That our connection, our time together means something.
She relaxes me. With her, I don’t have to be a genius, don’t have to impress or get results or solve complex problems. I can be myself. Talk about mundane things, act like a man instead of a future pakhan.
She blushes, glancing down, fumbling in her bag for something to hide her expression.
The air between us thickens, too much and not enough all at once.
Neither of us can confront the truth. Not yet.
Being a fake couple seems safe, especially when the emotions are so strong.
I’m afraid I might drown in them and forget myself if I give in.
I’m not used to feeling so strongly. This isn’t rational.
This isn’t like anything I’ve known before.
Yet, the desire to hold her, to see her again, to talk to her, is a constant voice in my brain, drowning out everything else.
Callista finally pulls out her phone and opens a photo. “You’re meeting my family this weekend, so you should at least know their faces.”
On the screen is a perfectly posed family portrait. She lays it on the table so I can get a better view.
“That’s my stepmother,” she says, her tone clipped.
“She’s cold and greedy. Married my dad for his money and status.
Then there’s Selina—she’s the golden child.
Shallow, self-absorbed, she thinks the world revolves around her.
And that’s Andrew. He’s the youngest. He’s ten, already a bully.
My stepmother covers up his messes so my dad never finds out. ”
I study the photo. “The way you describe them makes your feelings clear.”
“I can’t wait to graduate, find a job, and never see them again.” She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Once I’m independent, I’ll never have to pretend again.”
“Won’t you be lonely?”
Her fingers move to the ends of her hair, twisting the strands around her finger. “Maybe. But someday, I’ll make my own family. That way I’ll never have to go back to them. I’ll have people who actually want me around. A husband, kids… someone to spend holidays with.”
Her voice softens, and something fragile flickers across her face. I watch her twist that golden strand again and again, like she’s winding hope around her finger.
“What would that family look like?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m asking, but I want to know.
She smiles, faint but dreamy. “A loving husband. Someone who’s protective and loyal.
He’ll kiss me good morning every day and never make me feel like I’m too much or not enough.
We’ll have a big kitchen, maybe two or three kids.
They’ll make noise all the time, and I’ll complain, but I’ll love it.
I want our house to always be full of laughter. ”
As she speaks, the image forms in my mind too easily. Her arms wrapped around small children. Her hair loose and glowing in the light. Her belly round with another child, the way her hands would instinctively cradle the life inside her.
It shouldn’t hit me this hard.
But the thought of her—soft, maternal, smiling—lodges in my chest.
And I want it. I want her.
“I want that kind of family too,” I hear myself say.