Chapter Twenty-four #3
“But remember this,” Reina says gently, pulling back to look at us.
“Never settle for less than you deserve.” Her gaze softens when it reaches me.
“Especially you, Serena. You are carrying two lives.” Then she turns to Sienna.
“Support each other. Always. Have each other’s backs.
That is what I wish I had when I was your age. ”
We nod, silently promising.
As Reina smiles at us, something inside me steadies. I don’t know what awaits us tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever.
But for the first time in a long while, I feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be.
We finish setting the table, stepping back to admire it, and for a moment all of us just stand there, quietly pleased. The room feels warm and festive, candles glowing softly, plates aligned perfectly, the table dressed for a celebration that feels heavier than just Christmas.
“I think the turkey is ready!” Clara shouts from the kitchen.
Reina gestures for us to sit. “Stay,” she says gently but firmly when we try to help again. “You’ve done enough. Tonight, you are guests.”
The men are still not in the room. Whatever they are discussing behind closed doors clearly isn’t meant for us, and the absence sits there with us, unspoken.
Reina moves between the kitchen and the table effortlessly, as if she has done this a thousand times before, carrying dish after dish and placing them with care.
The first thing she brings out is the turkey.
It is massive, perfectly roasted, the skin golden and crisp, stuffed generously and surrounded by roasted vegetables glistening with butter and herbs.
A porcelain jug of rich gravy follows, steam curling into the air as she sets it down in the center of the table.
Then come the Russian dishes, unmistakable and comforting.
Large platters of pelmeni are placed carefully, the dough soft and delicate, served with bowls of sour cream and fresh dill.
Olivier salad follows, creamy and familiar, studded with peas and potatoes.
Reina adds shuba next, layered beautifully in deep reds and pale whites, and baskets of warm pirozhki whose golden crusts promise savory fillings.
Blini are stacked neatly beside small bowls of caviar and crème fra?che, elegant and indulgent.
The scents blend together, rich and nostalgic, filling the room.
Next, Reina brings out the Colombian dishes, placing them toward the side of the table where Andres will eventually sit.
Bunuelos, golden and crisp, still warm to the touch.
Natilla, smooth and dusted with cinnamon.
Arroz con coco, fragrant and slightly sweet, alongside slow-cooked meats glazed and tender.
Even without Andres present, it feels intentional, thoughtful, like she is saving a piece of home for him.
Finally, she places the Italian dishes. A large platter of lasagna, layered thick and heavy with sauce, clearly made with patience and time. Roasted potatoes with rosemary and garlic, a simple caprese salad with glossy mozzarella and fresh basil, and warm crusty bread wrapped in linen.
The table looks impossibly full now, a quiet collision of cultures and histories, all waiting.
Reina steps back, hands resting lightly on the back of a chair. “They’ll join us soon,” she says softly, as if sensing the question in the room. “Let the food stay warm.”
And then the door opens.
The conversation dies instantly, like someone cut the sound from the room.
The men file in one by one, their presence changing the air, making it heavier, denser.
Lorenzo first, his posture calm and controlled, eyes scanning the room before they soften the moment they land on me.
Andres follows, already loosening his cuffs, looking relaxed in that way that only means trouble is being handled.
Lev comes in next, all broad shoulders and lazy confidence, filling the doorway like he owns it.
Kirill enters behind them, composed and imposing, Alisa at his side.
And then I see him.
The man walking next to Alisa is massive. As tall as Lev. As wide. Built like destruction given human form. For a split second my mind tries to compare them, tries to make sense of it, and then it clicks.
Lev is chaos wrapped in charm. A murderous golden retriever, all sharp teeth and reckless loyalty, smiling even when he’s about to snap someone’s neck.
This man doesn’t smile.
There is nothing playful about him. Nothing careless. His face is carved from something colder, harder. His eyes are flat, predatory, scanning the room with the kind of precision that makes my spine tighten. He looks like someone who doesn’t threaten. He simply decides.
He wears a black suit like it’s a uniform, not an outfit. No unnecessary movement. No wasted energy. His hands hang loose at his sides, relaxed in a way that tells me they know exactly how to kill.
Something about him is off.
Not loud. Not obvious.
Just wrong.
I feel it instinctively, the way animals sense danger before they understand it.