Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
DINARA
Tonight's shift passes in a blur of drink orders and crowded tables, my face aching from the smile I've kept plastered on for hours. By the time Oksana waves me over to the bar for tip-out, every muscle in my body is protesting.
She slides an envelope across the polished wood, pinning it under her hand with an arched brow. “Well done. You made over two hundred dollars in tips.”
“Holy shit, seriously?” I blink at the cash. “I didn’t even have my own tables.”
She laughs. “The regulars were feeling generous tonight.”
Kirill wasn’t lying about the money being good. Not that I need it—the Syndicate pays me well for my hacking work. My rundown apartment is purely for show, part of the struggling student persona.
“You earned it. You busted ass tonight.” Oksana pulls her hair loose, shaking out long chestnut waves. “Want to stick around for a drink? We usually do a round after closing.”
“I’d love to, but I have an early class.
” Which is true. I have Data Structures at nine.
But the real reason I need to get home is the decryption program that’s been running for two days.
With any luck, it’s cracked through the archived Russian government files by now, and I can start hunting for connections between Ruslan Baronov and the Kupola Network’s trafficking operations.
“Next time,” I say. “By the way, is it normal for your feet to hurt this much after a shift?”
Oksana snorts and reaches for a bottle of vodka, pouring two shots. “You’ll get used to it. The first few shifts are the hardest. I take ice baths so I’m ready for dance rehearsal the next day.”
“Ice baths. That sounds like actual torture.”
“Welcome to my glamorous life.” She slides a shot across the bar top to me. “One for the road?”
“Why not?”
We knock back our shots, and Oksana blows me a kiss before disappearing to help close down.
I grab my stuff from the locker and pull on my coat without bothering to change out of my uniform.
I exit through the back door of the club to find a black SUV idling at the curb.
I’m pretty sure none of the other girls get personal drivers, but I haven’t asked because I don’t want to draw attention to my special treatment.
Kirill giving me an audition and a job I wasn’t qualified for caused enough whispers already.
I approach the back door and reach for the handle. It’s locked.
I frown and try again. Still locked.
What the hell?
I step to the lowered passenger window. My heart skips a beat at the sight of Kirill in the driver’s seat. One hand draped over the steering wheel, his eyes locked on me through the glass.
He’s in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms. His dark hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and stubble shadows his jaw in a way that makes him look way too fucking sexy for this late.
He wasn’t at the club tonight. At least I didn’t see him. And I have no idea what he’s doing here now.
He leans across to pop the lock, pushing the door open.
“Really?” I try to sound unimpressed as I climb in. “You’re playing chauffeur now?”
His mouth quirks. “Sometimes I pitch in.”
“How noble of you.”
I pull the door shut. Warmth wraps around me immediately, along with the scent of leather and whatever cologne he wears—something masculine and woodsy that sends a flutter through my stomach.
Before I can reach for the seatbelt, he does it for me. His knuckles brush my collarbone as he pulls the strap across my body and clicks it into place.
He pulls away from the curb while I’m trying to recover from that casual display of dominance.
I lace my fingers in my lap and force myself not to stare at the way his inked hands flex on the steering wheel.
“You seriously have nothing better to do tonight than drive me home?”
“I’m heading to a meeting in Brooklyn.” He glances at me before returning to the road. “Your place is on the way. How’s that alarm system working for you, by the way?”
“Just fine, thanks. So far no baddies have tried to break in.”
One corner of his lips ticks up in a half-smile that I find stupidly attractive. “Definitely not after they see that heavy-duty lock my men installed.”
“So what is it you do? On a day-to-day basis, I mean.”
The question is bold, maybe too bold, but if Kirill is going to play chauffeur, I’m taking the chance to learn as much as I can about his world.
He clears his throat. “I manage various parts of the family business.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s meant to be.” He sounds amused rather than annoyed. “Lately I’ve been dealing with a particularly annoying issue. With my father in Russia on business, I’m stretched thin.”
I make a mental note to look into Ruslan Baronov’s business in Russia, but I don’t get the chance to ask any more questions because Kirill pulls the car over without warning and kills the engine.
I look around at the unfamiliar street. “Where are we?”
“Figured you could use a bite after that long shift.” He unbuckles and opens his door. “And I’m guessing growing up in Moscow, you’ve never tried food like this.”
He’s out of the car before I can respond.
He opens my door, fingers wrapping around mine as he helps me from the car.
He doesn’t let go as he leads me toward a small shop with bright yellow walls and painted Spanish signs.
Through the window I spot a man behind the counter and a few late-night customers.
As he leads me inside, I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The calluses on his palm. The way his thumb brushes over my knuckles. The heat of his skin against mine.
This isn’t a date, I tell myself. Getting close to him is part of why I’m here.
But if it were a date, it would be my first real one. Everything before has been Netflix and chill or grabbing food with a group. This feels different.
The man behind the counter looks up, face brightening. “Kirill!”
He comes around the counter and pulls Kirill into one of those back-slapping man hugs, launching into a stream of Spanish I can’t follow. Kirill surprises me by answering back in the same language.
An older woman emerges from the kitchen, voice rising in greeting as she shuffles up to Kirill and pats his cheek affectionately.
He says something to her, gesturing to me, and the woman turns her attention my way with a warm smile. “?Ay, qué linda! Pero tan flaquita. Te voy a engordar, mija.”
I shake my head apologetically. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
Kirill’s mouth twitches. “Rosa says you’re very pretty but she needs to fatten you up. Apparently you’re too skinny.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever made that claim about me.”
“Don’t argue with Rosa. You won’t win. And for the record, you’re fucking perfect.”
I flush, before turning to the older woman. “ Gracias ,” I say. More or less the extent of my Spanish.
Rosa says something else, eyebrows raised, and Kirill shoots back what sounds like a tease. She swats his arm and laughs before ushering us toward a small table in the corner.
Once we’re seated, I lean in. “What did you say to her?”
“I told her you’ve never had a good taco before.”
“Hey, how do you know? I’ve eaten plenty of good tacos.”
“Not like this, you haven’t. No way Moscow has anything close to the Mexican food here. Trust me.”
I purse my lips, unimpressed. “Moscow isn’t some backwater village. We have every kind of restaurant. International food. It’s a major city.”
“I’m sure it is.” The look he’s giving me makes my skin warm. I pull off my jacket and drape it over my chair. “But Rosa’s tacos are better than anything you’ve had. Guaranteed.”
“Have you ever been to Moscow? Or are you talking out of your ass?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair point. My parents moved to the US a long time ago. I was born here a few months after they arrived. Never returned.”
“Wait, never?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Not even to visit?”
“There’s no one left to visit.” He shrugs. “My father has business there. Goes often. But he never saw a reason to bring us along. Said we’re American now. This is home.”
“Still.” I shake my head. “You’re not curious about where your family came from?”
“Maybe with the right tour guide.” He rubs the nape of his neck, and for the first time tonight he looks uncomfortable. Like he’s said something he can’t take back. “Do you miss it?”
I miss my father. I miss Hope, Pavel, and Kin. And I miss being myself instead of living this constant performance where every word is calculated. But I can’t say any of that.
“Sure. But things have worked out for me here. School is going well, and I like the job, so far. And though my boss is … bossy, I’m liking the people there.”
He grins, but before he can respond Rosa appears with enough food for six people. She sets it down with obvious pride, saying something to Kirill that makes him grin.
“She wants you to try one of each.” He pushes the platter toward me. “And before you say it’s too much, pace yourself. She’ll be watching.”
I give Rosa a grateful smile, and she squeezes my shoulder before going behind the counter to watch us closely.
He hands me one, and the smell alone makes my stomach growl. I take a bite and the flavors explode. Perfectly seasoned meat, fresh tortilla, the sweetness of cilantro.
It’s so good I let out a moan.
Kirill watches me with obvious satisfaction. “You like it?”
“It’s amazing.” I take another bite because I can’t help myself. “Okay, you were right. I’ve never had anything like this.”
“Told you.” He nods at Rosa and she returns it before shuffling back into the kitchen.
He’s completely at ease here. This version of Kirill, relaxed and speaking Spanish with Rosa like family, doesn’t match the Kirill at the club whose vibe is all business.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask between sips of orange soda.
“My brothers and I used to shoot pool at the hall upstairs. We’d come here when things got too heavy at home.
Rosa would feed us no matter what time we showed up.
” He reaches for another taco. “Eventually we spent enough time here to pick up Spanish. Mine’s shit, but enough to get by.
When my sister was old enough, we started bringing her too. ”
“You have a sister?”
“Yeah. Katya. She’s fifteen years younger than me.” Tenderness floods his voice.
“That’s a big gap.”
“Yeah, it is.” He looks down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of his plate. “Our mother died when she was a newborn. I was fifteen. Maybe that’s why I felt more like a father to her than a brother.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How did she…” I catch myself, realizing how invasive the question is. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Car accident.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, like he’s recited this many times. “She was coming home from an event, and she … lost control of the car.”
My throat closes. “God, Kirill. I’m so sorry. That must have been hard.”
“It wasn’t great.” He takes a sip of his drink. “When my sister got sick, she barely had an appetite. Rosa made her chicken soup from scratch, one of the few things she’d eat.”
“Sick?”
“She was eight when she was diagnosed with leukemia. We spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals.”
My throat tightens. “Is she okay now?”
“She’s in remission. Has been for years.” His expression softens.
I don’t know why but I can’t help laying my hand on his. He turns his palm over beneath mine, threading our fingers together. The gesture is so natural I don’t notice until our palms are pressed together, his fingers warm against mine.
My pulse kicks up.
His eyes meet mine and there’s something raw there. It makes me forget, for a moment, that I’m supposed to be using him.
“It was a tough time for all of us. But those are the moments that bond you, you know? To each other. To the people who show up for you. It bonded me to this place.”
I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t prepared for this side of him, shaped by loss like mine.
“I lost my mom when I was young too,” I blurt. I hadn’t meant to share that, but something in his voice makes me want to offer something real in return.
His grip tightens, thumb sweeping across my knuckles. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “How old were you?”
“Six. So I have more memories than Katya probably does. Good ones, mostly. Her laugh. The way she’d braid my hair before bed.
How she’d sing while she cooked.” My voice catches and I clear my throat.
“But it was hard for us afterwards. I don’t have siblings, so it was me and my father, and he wasn’t in a good place for a while.
He tried to put on a happy face for me, but I knew he was struggling. ”
“What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“She … took her own life.”
I don’t know why I say that. It’s the first thing my brain grabs so he won’t ask more questions. Or I hope he won’t.
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I try to smile. “But yeah. My father raised me alone after that. Never remarried. Never dated, as far as I know.”
I bite my lip. I’ve said way too much. But it felt good to open up. Even if his family is part of the reason my mother is gone.
“Your father sounds like he gave a shit.” Bitterness sharpens his voice. “Mine decided duty to the Bratva mattered more than duty to his kids. We weren’t his priority. Never were.”
I don’t know what to say, but hearing his pain is hard. Before we can continue, he pushes away from the table and covers his belly with both hands. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“Me neither. I hope Rosa’s proud.”
“I think we passed her test.” Kirill eyes the tabletop where we’ve demolished most of what she brought. “But she’s going to want to put a few more pounds on you. I’ll have to bring you back here.”
The smile spreading across my face is as genuine as they come.
“Do all Velour’s servers get this treatment?” I tease. “A ride home and dinner?”
He holds my gaze, intensity in those pale eyes sending my pulse skyward. “No. Just you.”