Chapter Five
Alexei
Catalina stands behind the counter of a coffee shop called The Daily Grind, a violet apron tied about her waist and her messy blonde ponytail threaded through the back of a branded baseball cap. She is smaller than I had imagined. A little waif of a woman with thin shoulders and narrow hips.
There is no one at the counter presently, and I watch through the window as she takes a moment to slip her phone out of her pocket and scroll through a handful of news articles.
I know what she must be looking for. Any mention of herself, of her family. She has been missing—to them—just over two weeks, now. I have known where she was since she arrived. It was a simple matter for Anatoli to run a trace on her number; the one the Russos do not know of.
Within a day of her arrival, I knew where she was staying. Within two, I knew where she was working. I could have snatched her off the street on her walk to work from the metro station if I had wanted to. It would have been easy.
It would not have been fun.
In truth, I expected Catalina to be the sort of woman who does her father’s bidding.
She had such a soft, innocent face in those pictures Anatoli gave me.
She looked meek, biddable. Malleable, even.
It never occurred to me that she would run.
I am certain that it never occurred to her father, either.
But now I am fascinated by this woman who outsmarted both of us.
Who decided for herself that the sacrifice of her comfortable life was worth her freedom.
She torched everything in an instant, left behind everything she knew only to secure it, and that—that interests me.
More even that that sweet, soft face did.
A willful woman with good survival instincts. I like that, I think.
Over these past days, I have begun to think of this as a game.
One she does not know we are playing. Cat and mouse, with a woman who thinks herself safe.
She has been careful—more careful than I would have expected of so sheltered a woman.
She has not used her bank accounts, has not logged into her email.
She bought a plane ticket, abandoned her car at the airport.
All smart things which have prevented the Russos from being able to find her.
But not me—because I have something they do not.
The phone in my jacket pocket beeps, and I watch Catalina tuck hers away as some new patron comes striding up to the counter. She pastes on a sunny smile in welcome. Her cheeks look thinner than in her pictures. Probably she is not eating as well as she would have a week ago.
I pull Nicola’s phone from my pocket and unlock it.
I think about you a lot. Now that you’re gone, I wonder if you ever thought about me. If you would have sold me out like Papa did.
Catalina is a sentimental woman. I have learned that in the weeks since I acquired Nicola’s phone. Probably this is because she was close to her mother, and now all that love and affection has nowhere to go. The Russos have no use for such things as sentimentality.
I do. It is a weakness ripe for exploitation.
Unfortunately for sweet, sentimental Catalina, Nicola would have sold her out even faster than her father. He was every one of Giulio’s vices distilled into a weak, worthless man. If he could have found use for Catalina before the rest of the Russos had, he would have done.
I tuck the phone back into my pocket. I have waited long enough.
Catalina has had two weeks to shed her jumpiness, the nerves which have lately afflicted her.
She does not look over her shoulder quite so often anymore.
Her boring little life here has already lulled her into a false sense of security.
Of course she knows her family must be looking for her. But she does not know I have found her.
A little bell over the door dings as I walk in.
The coffee shop is decorated in brilliant floral paintings, with lacy little doilies draped over every table.
In the far corner there is a large bookshelf stuffed with worn volumes which invite patrons to linger over a book.
The shop does steady business. It is just past ten in the morning, and already the tip jar on the counter is stuffed nearly full.
I wonder how much of that is due to Catalina’s bright smile, her pleasant, cheerful demeanor.
The man at the counter looks smitten as he takes the change Catalina offers him, as if her smile means something more than a mere greeting, something beyond the general friendliness a patron would expect of an employee.
He makes a show of peeling a crisp five dollar bill from his palm and stuffing it into the tip jar on the counter, like he can buy her time and attention with such a paltry sum.
Catalina doesn’t even notice, despite the flagrant obviousness of the gesture.
She is bent over the display case, carefully selecting a slice of pound cake with a pair of tongs.
He opens his mouth to say something as she hands him his plate, but she is already turning away again, working the dials of the espresso machine.
The man gives a low grunt of aggravation as the sound of grinding beans dominates, making conversation impossible.
By the time she hands him his cup, she has only a last, brief smile for him, her attention reserved for the next customer in line—me. And still the man lingers a few moments longer as I slide up to the counter, as if it will avail him anything.
It takes only a short, meaningful glance—rendered while Catalina is distracted with brushing her bangs out of her face—to send him skittering away.
I know his kind. Brash, but weak. Full of pretended confidence and bravado.
It is a house of cards that collapses beneath the weight of a breath, beneath a single hard look.
He does not want to challenge me for Catalina’s attention, which is wise of him.
Instead his head droops as he retreats to a nearby table, where slants me a sullen, resentful glance.
Catalina blows out a breath and lifts her head, her fingers poised over the keys of the register.
“What can I get for you?” she asks, painting that bright customer-service smile onto her face.
There is not so much as a flicker of recognition in her face, nothing to suggest she has even the slightest idea of who I am. Good.
I tap my fingertips upon the counter, like someone who is not too interested in lingering. “Coffee. Black.”
Her lips purse. “Size?” she asks, her voice bland. She’s judging my order.
“Large.” I’m amused. She has dismissed me in seconds. Women don’t dismiss me.
“Hot or iced?” She is all business now, hand stretched out in anticipation of grabbing the appropriate cup.
I reached across the counter, catch her wrist in the clasp of my fingers.
“What is wrong with black coffee?” I ask.
My grip is light, but she freezes anyway, her gaze jumping to my fingers around her wrist. Her nose twitches like a startled rabbit.
Like a prey animal that senses the presence of a predator.
“Nothing,” she says, and there is caution threaded through her voice. A new tension in her shoulders as they pitch up toward her ears. Her gaze flicks again toward the cups. I still have yet to give her a proper answer.
I let my hand fall from her wrist and lean forward on the counter. It makes me look shorter, less threatening. “Tell me,” I say, and produce a crooked smile which makes her shoulders sink back down again. “What is wrong with black coffee?”
Her pink tongue swipes across her lower lip. Her cheeks flush, just a little. “Well,” she says. “It’s boring. Don’t you think?”
I chuckle. “Is it? What do you recommend instead”—I make a show of squinting at the nametag pinned to her apron—“Cat?”
She points to the board above and behind her. “The lavender rose iced latte,” she says. “It comes with lavender syrup, whipped cream, and rose petals.”
It sounds terrible. Like a drinking a fucking garden. Who wants to drink a garden? “Give me that, then,” I say as I pull my wallet from my pocket and retrieve a hundred dollar bill.
Catalina stares at it, her blond brows furrowing. “It’s seven thirty-eight,” she says. “Tax included.”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“Do you have a credit card? The owner just emptied the till; I don’t know that there’s enough in the register to make change.”
“I don’t need change. Keep it for yourself.”
“That’s…a lot, you know.” Catalina’s cheeks hollow as she reaches for a cup. “A ninety-two dollar tip. Plus change,” she says, that quizzical expression still pleated into her brow.
“Maybe I feel generous today, Katya.” I know she must be strapped for cash. A little extra might not truly endear me to her, but it will definitely ensure she remembers me. As she opens the till, I turn my head to shoot a mocking glance at the man who is still scowling in my direction.
Fuck off with your pitiful five dollar bill.
Catalina accepts the hundred and slides it neatly into the till. “Can I get a name for your order?” she asks as she grabs a marker.
“Alexei,” I say, and she dutifully scrawls it onto the cup.
The bell jingles as another few patrons meander in.
Even my exorbitant tip will not hold her attention for much longer.
Catalina has turned her back on me now as she works the espresso machine and laces the clear plastic cup with liberal pumps of a viscous purple syrup.
While she works, I let my gaze linger on her ass for a few moments.
She’s got a nice ass. Round and full, flattered by the cut of her jeans.
The sort of plump, firm flesh I can sink my fingers into.
When she turns around again to offer me my drink, I can see that the mound of whipped cream on top is flaked with crushed rose petals.
The smell is absurdly floral, the scent of coffee smothered by the syrupy sweet aroma of the flowers.
I make certain our fingers touch as she hands the cup over to me.
Hers are cold, chilled by the icy cup in her hand.
“Thanks,” I tell her as I ease away from the counter, and for a fraction of a second her hand lingers in the air as if she is frozen in place.
Someone else slots into my place, but Catalina is still stationary, arrested.
Unable to summon even a greeting. Even a smile.
“I’ll be back,” I say. “For more. If it is good.”
“Uh…” Catalina presses her lips together, still flustered. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” She colors again, gives a tiny shake of her head. “For the tip, I mean.”
I head for the door. Probably there is a trash can close by where I can dispose of this sugary abomination of a drink I don’t want. I will be back anyway, but I want her to wonder.
Little Catalina imagines herself safe. Discreet and anonymous in her new city, hidden beneath the violet apron and the baseball cap and the nametag that reads Cat.
Maybe that is what she is. A koshechka; a sweet little kitten.
I wonder how long I can keep her sweet, how far I can take this until she finally realizes she has been mine all along.
That I have always had her in the palm of my hand.
That I have won this game before she even knew she was playing.
Somewhere beneath all that sweetness, I know she must have claws. I can hardly wait until she shows them.