Chapter 3 - Valentin
“Just drop me off here.” I lean forward and tap my driver on the shoulder.
“But boss, the bar’s round the corner,” he tries to protest.
“I know, but the traffic’s bad and I’m running late.” I peer through the glass, on edge. My driver quirks an eyebrow at me in the rear-view mirror as though to say, ‘And you know exactly why.’
And I do. I staked out the Zakharov property for longer than I intended to.
..yet again. My men were getting pissed because nowadays, I’m not always where I’m supposed to be.
I know every minute I spend on Gela is stealing time away from my duties towards my family, but despite that guilt, I find myself faltering when she’s in plain sight.
“Thanks, Yuri,” I say as he pulls up to a stop on the side of the street. I jump out and make my way on foot for the last hundred meters or so until I reach Dmitri’s, a low-key dive bar tucked away in a little alley no one thinks to take. It’s dark, dingy, and dangerous-looking.
It’s just the kind of location men like us need to talk about things away from prying ears. When I step into the smoky bar, my eyes scan the dim room until they find my younger brother Leonid.
When Leonid notices I’m the one who stands at the door, his eyes narrow, and he raises a middle finger at me. I'm late, and Leonid hates waiting, so it’s no surprise he’s annoyed. A couple of Bratva guys at the other tables notice and they snigger.
“Oy, Valentin,” one of them yells. “Reminds us who's the older one again?”
“I swear, Smirnov, talk shit, and I’ll break that fat, useless neck of yours,” I joke back and walk past their table with a wink as I make my way over to Leonid at the corner booth he occupies.
“Why the hell are you late?” Leonid asks the moment I slide into the opposite seat.
“Oh, hello to you, too.” I give him a warning glare, just to remind him who’s boss around here. We might be brothers, but when we meet for work, the hierarchy is a matter of importance.
Leonid sighs and sounds annoyed when he speaks. “I’ve been waiting a while here, brother. You were the one who said we should discuss strategy before the guys we’re to meet arrive.”
I’m forced to look away and motion at the waitress to bring me my usual, just so Leonid can’t see the guilt on my face.
He’s right. It had been my idea to finalize our stance before the local weapons distributors who were to negotiate better commission rates with us showed up.
But lately, my mind's been elsewhere—on brown eyes and that dimpled, unreal smile.
“Okay.” I try to get back to the topic at hand before I lose myself in thoughts of Gela again.
“Here’s what I propose. The current market rate is 12 percent, but with the volume we supply, we’re going to force their hand down to 8 percent or threaten to set up our supply. What do you think?”
“What I think, Trifon's asking questions about where you go and who you're meeting. You missed the shipment check yesterday. He was pissed.”
I keep a straight face and lie because explaining Gela will never work—they’ll never get it. And there is no way to logically explain that I was outside her apartment building until well past midnight, sitting and watching her window till the lights turned off just to make sure she was safe.
“I'm handling something.” I keep it vague. “Personal business.”
“Personal business, huh?” Leonid's eyes narrow. “What personal business can you have? Unless it’s a woman…” His eyes widen. “Valentin, if you're risking our operation for pussy—”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I snap, the words out before I can stop them.
His eyebrows shoot up, and I immediately regret my reaction. My younger brothers have been known to talk loosely about women. Once upon a time, I did too, and snapping at Leonid for a loose tongue isn’t like me at all.
But Gela does that to me. She brings out this fiercely protective side I can’t explain to anyone, not even to myself.
She’s sunshine in human form. Smart. Driven.
Utterly oblivious to the evil she’s surrounded by, and as long as she works in that Zakharov building, she needs to be watched over because she’s entirely in the dark about where she works and who funds that business of hers.
“The Zakharovs,” I say, changing the subject. “Any movement at their headquarters?”
Leonid takes the hint. “Nothing unusual. There are some new security protocols. They're recruiting, though. Bringing in more muscle.”
My chest tightens. Gela works in one of their building. If something goes down there for some unforeseen reason...
“We need to step up surveillance,” I say.
What I don't say: I need to know she's safe.
“Already on it.” Leonid checks his watch. “He's here.”
I turn to see our arms dealer and his cronies entering the bar, and force all thoughts of Gela from my mind, for now.
But at the same time, I feel like the noose around my neck’s only getting tighter.
My brothers have started asking questions, and it’s about time I figure out a way to keep work and Gela on either side of a well-drawn line.
Somewhere along the way, over the past two weeks since I started talking to her, I’ve forgotten who I’m supposed to be watching: The Zakharovs or her?
And the hardest part?
I can’t give up either of my missions.
One I have to protect, while the other I have to protect from.
***
Like clockwork, I show up and park outside the café on Sunday at 9:00 AM. I’ll walk in there later and pretend to act surprised at the sight of her, like I always do.
I hate lying to her.
But sweet, innocent, Gela Jones isn’t exactly the kind of woman to invite a Bratva second-in-command over for pancakes, is she?
I’m only keeping an eye on her because she’s surrounded by danger. I know how hard she’s worked to get to where she is now. Graduated with student loans, working her ass off to pay them off while running a hard-core business, and with her family back in Minnesota?
She needs to be protected.
I take a table I now call my usual, and Gela comes in around a quarter past nine. She walks straight up to the barista, orders her skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot, and takes the window seat in the back corner where she can spread out her laptop and notes.
I know this because I've been watching. Learning her patterns. Convincing myself it's because she works in the Zakharov building, that it's just surveillance, not obsession.
I'm full of shit.
I give her half an hour to settle down and dive deep into her work before I walk in, only when I’m certain the timing won’t look too suspicious.
When I spot her, my heart does an unprecedented, ridiculous little flip in my chest. I swear, my heart’s never flipped for a woman before.
I walk by her table and notice she’s bent over her laptop, her fair hair loose around her face. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans today, and I’m starting to think casual Sunday Gela is my favorite version so far.
I order my coffee and casually scan the room as if looking for a seat, then let my gaze land on her as if by accident.
“Gela Jones,” I say, injecting surprise into my voice. “We've got to stop meeting like this.”
She looks up, and every second slows as her face lights up with the most genuine delight. She’s happy to see me, and I want to take that little nugget of information and drill it into memory.
“Valentin!” Her smile lights up her entire face. “Is it strange I’m not surprised?”
“Maybe we should sync our calendars,” I joke, walking up to her table. “Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.” She closes her laptop slightly. “Though I warn you, I'm not great company today. Deadline hell.”
I sit down, taking a moment to take her in up close. She’s wearing a fresh face today, with some lip gloss, and that’s all. But even then, she’s prettier than any woman in here.
“Did you ever try that Italian place I recommended, by the way?” she asks, sipping her coffee. “The one on Hanover Street?”
She’s told me to try it when I banged into her at the park last Friday. I never got around to it, but I’d memorized the name and researched it thoroughly in case she asked.
“Vesuvio's?” I nod. “That Carbonara was to die for. You were right about the tiramisu, too.”
She squeals with delight. “I knew you'd love it! Their chef is from Naples—the real deal, you know?”
“Your recommendations haven't steered me wrong yet,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “What else should I try in this city?”
It's a calculated question. Give her the chance to suggest another place, which gives me the opening to suggest we go together.
What the hell am I thinking, pretending like Gela and I could be any other couple on the street? Her world doesn’t even know mine exists. I’m as alien as can get.
But still, my heart hopes.
“Well, there's this amazing Thai place near my office,” she says, taking the bait perfectly. “Best pad thai I've ever had.”
“We should go sometime,” I suggest, keeping my tone casual. “I've been craving good Thai food.”
A flush creeps up her neck, and she tucks her hair behind her ear nervously.
“I'd like that,” she says softly.
For a moment, we just look at each other, and I imagine a different world. One where I'm just a man, and she's just a woman. One where I don't have to lie about who I am or what I want. One where I haven't been stalking her for weeks.
“Though I should warn you,” she adds with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “I judge people heavily on their spice tolerance.”
God, she makes me laugh.
“Trust me, I can handle heat.” I give her a wink. I don’t mean to, but my gaze falls momentarily to her lips. If she notices, she doesn’t say or stop her chattering.
“We'll see,” she teases. “Here! We might as well exchange numbers.”
Unbelievable. She’s handing me her number. I watch her smile curve into that adorable little dimple as I give her mine.