Chapter One
Ava
The thick fog clinging to my ankles is the only thing keeping my focus, as I struggle to block out the what if’s . You know, the ones that poison your brain to the point of feeling like you could rip your body suit off, as if that would help you escape the stewing hate of oneself. That’s exactly what I can’t do, get away. My chunky boots thud against the foggy pavement as glowing lights spark my attention to the Cafe ahead.
Early mornings are not too bad, but the early morning grocery shopping days for a week's worth of baking ingredients are. That is until I see the warm bulbs of light illuminating The Rabbit Cafe. It shines bright with the gumption of caffeine and freshly baked muffins, nestling between a flower shop and a clothing boutique. The pristine white bricks of neighboring stores try to suffocate the sides of the glowing Cafe, but nothing could take away the one place I have left.
The silhouette of professionals drone in and out with their perfect work outfits and matching briefcases. Uttering into their phones or texting their one-night stands they fucked the night before, making up excuses for being emotionally unavailable. However, I could just be sour at the fact that this city is full of the same flow, as if between the hours of 6:30 a.m. and 8:00 a.m. were set on a loop.
Except my programming seemed to be different.
Baltimore has always been what I have known. The crowded store fronts and hum of twisted truths. The familiarity of the sun rising, glinting a soft muted blue on the skyline, and how once a week I stand on the corner, adjacent to the Cafe, juggling paper sacks of flour and sugar. My gaze travels from the Cafe to the flickering crosswalk sign as it flashes green to yellow.
20 seconds , it reads.
Ambling my heavy boots toward the Cafe, the dread of the numbers ticking down starts to weigh on me. The tick-tik-tick ignites a foul taste on my tongue, pushing the darkness to the surface.
13 seconds .
As I look at the plants in the window sill, the tarnishing taste fades slowly. I have made it what I could with what I had, even if the stupidity of my parents’ debt is why I am tethered to this Cafe, if not chained to the city.
8 seconds .
Born into shackles of secrecy and death, I was so close to escaping it until they were murdered in a heist gone wrong.
3 seconds.
For seven of my twenty-six years on this earth I have spent every morning having to calm my worries. Seven years, working and collecting measly paychecks. But one day, maybe one day, it could be mine.
The crosswalk sign announces do not cross, wait as I reach for the door handle.
The bell dings as I open the window framed door.
“Ava!” Sarah squeaks, barreling toward me. She is a co-worker but quickly became my best friend years ago. “Where were you this weekend?” she asks playfully, pouting. “I wanted to go out. Are you OK?” She smiles, wiping her tan hands on her apron. Her long black hair sways with her steps as her dangling earrings shift back and forth. She is wearing black skinny jeans and a white shirt as usual for work, and as always, her makeup is on-point.
“Let me grab one of these,” Sarah says, reaching for the heavy paper sack. She wraps her free arm, tightly hugging me to her side as if I were going to float away. I fucking can’t stand she means so well when she doesn’t know how horrid of a family I come from.
A dead family at that.
All she knows are the parts of me I let her see, which doesn’t include my family assassinating for money, drugs, and the debt I owe.
I never really saw my parents as they jetted around, fucking people over to line their pockets. Not that the people they were screwing over were peaches by any means. But maybe they wouldn’t be six feet under rotting if they had focused on actually not being scumbags. Hell, they weren't even modern-day Robin Hoods, just wannabe gangsters trying to climb the ladder of the Bratva.
I tie a crisp black apron around my waist and a bow around my neck. My voice is soft, “Well, I realized I needed some time to sleep.” Lies. I had my monthly meeting with Kate, who collects the debt for the Volokhov family.
When I first met her seven years ago, my eyes were swollen shut and fingers bloodied from my failed attempt at fighting off two grown-ass-men in black masks. They read my contract, and the choices were slim. I either had to agree to it —or die.
Obviously, I took the deal working for them.
I follow Sarah behind the white granite counter, unlocking the computer screen to clock in.
7:45 a.m. - Ava.
Right on time.
I make sure my gray sweater is not riding up as I poke it down into my skirt. I grin at the customer in line as they tap their foot. He scours the blackboard menu above me as I try to forget about the meeting with Kate.
Sarah nudges my shoulder, “Tonight, me, you, and some drinks. My treat and choice.” She squints her eyes, pointing at them with two fingers and back at me. My hesitation must have shown on my face as she drops her chin, squinting her eyes at me. She throws a hand towel over her shoulder as she leans her tiny frame on the counter, popping her hip out, and waiting for my response.
I really don’t want to, but I know I haven’t spent much time with her lately.
I nervously tug at my tight, plaid skirt over my leggings,“How could I say no to—” My answer is cut short with a huff of an order from the customer. I peer behind him and realize we are falling behind.
I slide my black rimmed glasses up my nose as if it would help get through the line faster. Sarah takes over the line as I make the drinks. We are a super team using a language, like it was some ancient coffee shop slang, that only people who work in Cafes could understand. The line dwindled to nothing in no time, but The Rabbit Cafe is full of customers.
The low buzz of conversation and the occasional laugh, pair well with “Werewolf” by Cat Power as it softly plays on the hidden speakers. Some sat in the corners, nestling on red velvet loveseats with their significant others, engrossed in each other's next move as they sip their cappuccinos. The significance of being alone and not having even a fuck buddy right now stung. One corner of my lip tips up, pressing the other corner into a frown. A month ago, I fell for the same love-bombing and mediocre sex I always fall for, which ended with me finding out they were a liar. I have a partner picker that malfunctioned when I started working here as the manager. At least I am catching myself quicker when determining when these men are chumps, but the want to have something more is what I crave.
Though, with me being a prisoner, some choices are the only thrill I have left.
Wiping the espresso machine down, I admire the dark maroon walls. This shop was once a shell of a sad existence, of what they pretended was a good cup of coffee. It was bare and gray when I was plopped here and had no direction but to make it work. The cedar tables reflect their lacquer finish under the warm lights as the scent of sweet coffee permeates from the floors. I've made it a place that others can at least enjoy, too.
The chatter falters as the music continues to play like the customers froze mid-movement. My attention shifts from the art hanging on the maroon walls as I attempt to understand why everyone is so quiet, for what seems like forever.
The door swings open as the hush of murmurs ignites again, and the distant whisper falls like ice onto the crown of my head. “That's Stepan Volokhov,” a customer says.
Just as fast as the murmurs arose, they swirled in the palpitating air, drifting into a hush. The customers carry-on with their conversations, trying not to draw attention. But it was just as astonishing to me to see them in their business.
Fuck. Please no.
Stepan and another man strides toward Sarah and me as my stomach churns uneasily. I wonder what they want as I squint to focus on the tall, back-lit shadows approaching us with every passing step. I bite the corner of my lip inward as I watch Stepan approach the counter. He looks a lot different than the young teen I remember from the holiday get-togethers and when he beat me into this contract. Of course, he was masked, so it wasn’t like I really saw him. I only knew it was him because of his unmistakable pretentious voice.
His straight nose rises with a lift of his thin chin, towering around six feet. His eyes are completely opposite from the glossy sparkle that he had in them years ago. His hair is shorter, and he is a lot more muscular. Tattoos reach slightly above his freshly pressed red dress shirt and black blazer.
He always sent someone to the Cafe to pick up his coffee order and never came in on his own. I replay handing my lousy paycheck over to the pristine accountant to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.
My heart was beating so fast that I could have sworn when the other man with Stepan tilted his head, he was listening to the pounding against my chest.
He’s smiling like he knows. Oh no. He knows I’m nervous.
Sarah jots her eyes to me as I search for her thoughts, anticipating what she will say. She knows Stepan’s family owns the Cafe but is gleefully naive about what their dark world is really like under the surface.
And I’m happy she will never have to know what it’s like.
She sets a pen down on the register, “Oh welcome! I honestly never thought I would get to meet the owners since Ava has pretty much….” Sarah rambles nervously and pauses, realizing she is oversharing the fact that they have absolutely nothing to do with this place. I know it’s a front for them, but she thinks it’s just a way for them to pocket more money. A secret glee arose in my throat, leading me to nearly burst out laughing in Stepan’s face. She at least knows they don’t do anything for the Cafe.
Stepan lets out a quick mocking chuckle, beating me to it. “I commend you for this, uh, place,” he scoffs, looking around. “I will have two Americanos to go.” Stepan shifts his chin down, glaring his brown eyes between Sarah and me. Clearly he is not impressed with Sarah’s attempt to relate to his interest in owning the Cafe.
Not that he has any.
I reply almost in a whisper, “That will be on-the-house, of course, but maybe some muffins to go with this?” I stand with as much power as I can, so I don't crumble in fear. The dread sinks into me, expecting him to tell my best friend about my secret life.
It's not like I had a choice asshole.
The dread morphs into fear, because it doesn’t matter how public, or how safe you may feel with those around you. Everyone knows the South East of Baltimore —heck, even all of Baltimore, these sick and twisted individuals will kill you and tell the paid-off police.
Da, i ty bessilen— yes and you are powerless. The Volokhov motto.
I stood next to Sarah, staring upward, registering how different I am from these brooding men of muscle and hate. Curling into the best peasantry smile I can muster, I lean onto my elbows pulling my sleeves over my hands.
The mystery man keeps his dark, brown eyes on my face, swooping his eyes along my jawline. He is a lot taller than Stepan, at least six-foot-five, which is huge compared to me. Though muscular, he is slim and athletic with ten-times the ink on his body reaching to his hairline. Tattoos of black vines and thorns slither out of the eye sockets of a skull, centering his throat. He ran his hand through the longest part of his hair on the top of his head, slicking back the strays of black that had fallen to his eye line.
He wore a crisp, all-black suit, and a chain hangs from his belt loop into his pocket. It rattles out of his pocket as he steps forward with a smile, “I see you know my brother,” he says, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
His eyes are different from Stepans, and I’m not talking about the almond shape. They have this strange murky texture of dark bitter smoke, but brown nonetheless.
Why is he so good looking for probably being a worse human than Stepan with those eyes?
I shiver and the twist in my gut reaches its limit as I shift my hands, tucking my auburn hair behind my ears.
Stepan lifts his phone to his face, “Splendid, sure,” he says, tapping his foot in annoyance.
I nervously slide my thumbs outward in the apron, sliding from the top to my waistline. I open my mouth to respond, but Sarah interrupts as she plops a white paper bag onto the counter, filled with what I assume are muffins. I push down the confusion of why I never knew Stepan had a brother and if he was as curious about who I was.
As much as I hate to relive it, a lot of my childhood was spent around Stepan’s family and other members of the Bratva. None of it that I recall included a brother.
Sarah sets the hot cups of coffee in front of me, placing the lids securely on top. I straighten to a stand and scoot the coffee cups forward as I search the memories of those cold winter parties at hotels. I would sit in the corners and wait for it to end, watching the Volokhov family attract the others into their claws. Though, I only remember Stepan and his father, other than their men.
I point to the bag, “Blueberry muffins and two Americanos to go,” I say lightly as my eyes drift between Stepan and the brother. “I… I am sorry, how rude of me. I do know your brother.” My fingers fold over the seams of my sweater cuffs, wishing I never did. It wasn’t like I knew the man’s fucking favorite color or anything. All I knew was he was notorious for sicking his hounds in the streets, taking what they wanted from whomever they wanted, and I was sure this brother would be the same. I picked up one of the coffee cups and handed it to him, “What was your name?”
“Roman.” His voice is deep, rumbling in playful delight. I cross my arms as a way to wall myself in. I’m not sure if he was trying to flirt or if he just naturally has a deep dark voice.
Get it together Ava they are horrid humans.
He reaches for the cup, wrapping his tattooed fingers around the contents. The mass of the white cup almost disappears under his large grip, and I gulp nervously as I watch his eyes spring to my throat.
This interaction must have piqued Stepan's interest as he pockets his phone, rolling his eyes, “Pleasantries made. Thanks for the coffee and muffins, but we have things to do.” Stepan yanks the coffee off the counter and forces a grin at Sarah and me. He starts for the entrance holding his coffee aloft, “Let’s go Roman.”
Roman raises his eyebrows at me, clenching his jaw slightly and follows his brother.
I breathe out, puffing my cheeks with a hard exhale as Sarah takes the next customer's order. I focus on Stepan and Roman as they avoid traffic, jogging across the road to an all-black Mercedes SUV.
Figures, I don’t even have a car and they have that.
Roman opens the back door to the SUV, allowing Stepan to climb over the black interior seats. He steps closer to follow behind but hesitates, looking over his shoulder and up at the Cafe’s sign. I slide behind the espresso machine as his eyes trace down the bricks to the front windows. In the hope of avoiding him catching me staring, I pretend to fidget with the machine.
Did he see me?
Sarah hands me a drink order as if, like everyone in this town, the Volokhov’s presence was to be accepted. Their crimes and presence to be ignored.
Sarah whispers,“What are you doing?” she asks as she stands at the register. She grits her front teeth into a smile toward me and relaxes her grin at the next customer. I could tell she thought I was off my rocker, but they were like evil magnets that I can’t ignore.
I peer around the machine, dissociating from her question. The brothers may have been gone from my sight, but uneasiness scorches my brain. The overburdening thoughts of them crawling from their caves of madness to wreak havoc for the fun of it, makes me wonder why they were here. If I know one thing about the Bratva, it is that they will terrorize anything that gets in their way.