Chapter 2
LUKA
Coincidence doesn’t exist, not in my world.
The girl from yesterday, the one with blue eyes like ice set aflame, is no accident.
She is here again now, moving behind the counter of the café as if nothing happened, pouring milk into cups, pulling shots of espresso, and chatting briefly with customers.
Yet every flick of her wrist, every curve of her mouth when she forces a polite smile for a tourist, is cataloged in my mind.
She thinks she blends into this cozy mountain town, but the moment my dog knocked her off balance and the coffee went flying, her name, her face, and her inner fire were sealed into my memory.
I sit in the corner of Bean I eliminate. She nurtures; I dominate.
Yet here we are, orbiting each other across a room that smells like vanilla and coffee beans.
Misha once told me women from towns like this are soft.
That they smile for everyone, trust too easily, and believe the world is built on kindness.
But this one doesn’t. She serves her coffee, yes, but there is fire beneath her freckles.
I observed it when I demanded her phone yesterday, and she hesitated before obeying.
I notice it now in the stubborn lift of her chin as she dares me to look away first.
I don’t.
Instead, my memory stirs. My mother's voice, long gone but still sharp in my mind. “Luka, do not mistake silence for weakness. A woman who does not bend is far more dangerous than one who shouts.”
Dasha Barinov had been elegant and graceful, even while cancer ate her alive.
She softened the Bratva's jagged edges and made men fear my father while admiring her.
At Bratva dinners and business meetings, she could silence a room with a raised eyebrow or command respect with a smile.
She understood that true power is often whispered instead of shouted.