Page 7 of Ruthless Bratva King

6

ELENA

The coffee shop on Fifth and Pine looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie. Strings of fairy lights frame the windows, and the faint scent of cinnamon wafts through the air as I approach.

My stomach churns as I stare at the cheerful little sign above the door:Bean There, Ground That.

I wince. That amount of cheesiness should be illegal. Even Hallmark would turn it down.

The light changes, and I cross the street before I can talk myself out of it.

The bells over the door jingle as I step inside, and the warmth of the shop wraps around me like a blanket. A few people are scattered around the tables, sipping coffee and typing on laptops.

Dmitri sits in the corner, his back to the wall, a steaming mug in front of him. He’s dressed in a black suit again but his linen shirt is mercifully blood-free.

His tattoos draw my eyes once more, and as my gaze drifts to his face, I’m seized by those fiercely intense eyes.

Goddamn. I didn’t know there were real men this attractive; how does he get anything done? I swear he’s getting the furniture pregnant just by sitting on it.

He doesn’t wave me over; he doesn’t need to. There’s something about the way he’s watching me that pulls me toward him like gravity.

“Sit,” he says before I can even open my mouth.

I slide into the chair across from him, my hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Nice place,” I say, trying for sarcasm but only managing a shaky voice. “Didn’t peg you for a caramel latte kind of guy.”

His lips twitch, but it’s not a smile. “I find people talk more openly when they feel safe.” He stares at me without blinking. “Where’s your father, Elena?”

His dark eyes search my face like he’s trying to peel back my layers. Then he stands, towering over the small table, and I shrink away.

Dmitri places his palms on the table and leans forward so his face is close to mine, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

“He hasn’t contacted you, has he?”

My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out.

What can I say? I have a million questions, but with his breath on my face, I couldn’t speak up if my life depended on it.

Whoishe? What does he want with my father?

And why—for the love of God,why—does he look at me like that?

Dmitri stands up and sighs. He tosses a hundred onto the table, and I stare at it, afraid to get caught by his eyes again.

“Think very carefully before you waste my time again,” he says.

When I raise my head, he’s gone, the door jangling behind him.

7

DMITRI

Jimmy’s apartment reeks of stale sweat, burnt coffee, and damp. My boots thud softly against the hardwood as I move through the empty space, phone pressed to my ear.

“Someone tipped them off,” I say. “Gone by the time I got here last night.”

There’s a pause, then the voice on the other end, speaking in Russian, growls through the receiver. “So why go back?”

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