Page 80 of Santa Daddy
Twenty minutes later,I walked down a real sidewalk under a real sky with snow flurries nipping at my cheeks.
Yakov and Lenny flanked me, hands in their coats but definitely not relaxed. Their gazes flicked over everything—alleys, doorways, reflections in shop windows the way Konstantin’s did.
Still. For the first time in days, there was no glass between me and the cold.
The city buzzed around us, subdued in that Christmas afternoon way. Fewer cars. More people on foot. Kids dragging new sleds, carrying stuffed animals and remote-control cars. A street vendor nearby sold roasted chestnuts, the smell warm and earthy in the frosty air. Somewhere, a tiny speaker played a tinny “Jingle Bells.”
It felt…overwhelming. And painfully, achingly normal.
I watched a couple in ridiculous matching scarves laugh over two paper cups from the café on the corner, fingers intertwined, the woman’s nose red from the cold. A guy in a heavy coat yelled into his phone about year-end numbers, face flushed but free to be annoyed wherever he wanted.
A woman pushed a stroller piled with shopping bags and a yawning toddler in a tiny puffer jacket, talking to someone beside her about how hard it was to get her kid to nap with all the excitement.
They had no idea how lucky they were.
Their problems were real to them. But they weren’t men at poker tables deciding whether to shoot a girl under mistletoe.
“Ma’am?” Yakov’s gravelly voice cut through my voyeurism. “Where would you like to go?”
Anywhere. Everywhere. Mars, if they had good coffee and no Bratva.
“Café,” I said, pointing to a cozy place with fogged windows and a chalkboard sign advertising hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. “Somewhere without bulletproof glass.”
The café was perfect. Small, warm, and cluttered with mismatched chairs and real people. A sad little fake tree blinkedmulticolored lights in the corner, tinsel hanging lopsided. A speaker in the ceiling played a soft acoustic cover of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
I ordered the largest latte on the menu and sank into a corner table. Yakov positioned himself half a step behind me, Lenny took the seat across, facing the door.
My twin shadows. I wasn’t alone. Not really.
For a few sweet minutes, I let myself pretend.
This is what normal women do on Christmas. Sit in cafés. Drink overpriced coffee. Decide whether to tip fifteen or twenty percent and complain about their in-laws.
I was halfway through my drink when he appeared.
Mid-twenties maybe. Designer stubble. That easy, polished smile that said he was used to “hey, beautiful” working most of the time.
He approached with confident strides, eyes on me. Completely oblivious to the two walking red flags flanking my table.
“Excuse me,” he said, grin widening. “I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here alone?—”
“She’s not alone,” Yakov rumbled without turning his head.
The guy’s smile flickered. His gaze tracked up to Yakov’s face, then over to Lenny’s unreadable stare. Awareness dawned.
“Right,” he said, taking a step back. “Didn’t realize…”
He retreated so fast he almost tripped over someone’s stroller. Smart boy.
The illusion shattered.
I wasn’t a normal woman grabbing a Christmas coffee on a stolen afternoon. I was a protected asset on a supervised field trip.
“This was unnecessary,” I muttered, draining the rest of my latte in a few big gulps. It was suddenly too sweet. Too much. “It was just coffee.”
“Boss’s orders,” Lenny said with a shrug. “No one talks to you without permission.”
No one talks to you. As if my vocal cords now had a clearance level.
