Dominic
"What are you doing?" She leaned over my arm, glancing at my phone. "Who are you messaging?"
The warmth of her body pressed against my side.
"Your fucking boss, Pakhan, or Don, or whatever the hell you call a Russian godfather."
"You've seen far too much television, Mina." I finished drafting a message to Tima in Russian, telling him I had the asset, then sent it off.
"So, who is it?"
"Who is what?"
"Don't play stupid." She sighed. "The person you texted. The one who pulls your strings. How far up does he go?"
"Could've been a female." I raised a brow for effect, then slipped my phone in my front pocket.
She stumbled, fell into my side, and grabbed onto me.
"See, I knew you liked touching me."
"Go fuck yourself!" She huffed. "You know what? I can't do this with you, Dom, because you're an ass." She stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, essentially jaywalking. "I'm done. We're done."
"Whoa." I caught up to her in a couple of steps, then latched onto her bicep. "Where do you think you're going?"
"As far away from you as I can get, and if you don't let go of my arm, I'm gonna scream."
"And why would you do that?"
"To get those officers' attention." She pointed at a couple of uniformed men on foot.
"And why exactly would you do that?"
"Why do you think?" A smile of contempt played upon her lips.
"Yasmina Ona Costa, don't even think about—"
"How dare you," she yelled with a heavy southern drawl, then slapped my face. "I'm not that kind of lady!"
A male cyclist slowed, and his gaze bounced between Mina and me. In seconds, she turned on what sounded like waterworks and sobbed hysterically in the middle of the road. A couple of cars drove around the spectacle unfolding, and then the motorists began to stop.
Horns sounded, drawing the eyes of the officers.
The cyclist approached her. "Are you okay?"
"I was waitin' for my brother," she sobbed in her hands, "and this man started followin' me, asking me personal questions about what kind of sex I like. And now, I don't know where I am."
When she looked up, she had red eyes, a flushed face, and tears sprung from her eyes.
My little actress was at it again, only this time, instead of observing her in the act, she turned me into one of the key players of her live theatrical production.
"What did you do to her?" The cyclist dismounted his bike, then used it to place a barrier between Mina and me.
"Nothing." I raised my hands in the air. "I don't want any trouble," then backed away and headed to the sidewalk.
The foot officers continued to watch from the other side of the street, migrating closer to the curb.
Mina and the cyclist carried on a short conversation just out of range, and he walked her to the other side of the road. Once there, she dried her tears, stuck a hand in the pocket of my suit jacket she had on, and to my surprise, she pulled out my fucking cell.
A smile bloomed on her lips, and she held the phone to her ear as if talking to someone, which I knew was utter bullshit.
There was no way she had gotten into my new phone. And then I saw it, the double nose twitch—the telltale sign that she was lying her ass off.
The cyclist waved to her, then headed off down the road once more.
My little actress took a couple of steps toward the officers, and I shook my head in warning. Instead of stopping, she picked up her pace, but halfway to them, two Mexican cartel members stepped out of a shop.
Mina froze in place, turned on the heels of her shoes, and headed in the opposite direction in a brisk walk. The men trailed behind her, closing in at a slow but steady pace. At the end of the street, she turned left at the corner and continued to walk.
"Fucking Mexicans," I said under my breath, then jogged across the street.
A car turned in front of me, forcing me to follow the cartel members in pursuit from the other side of the street.
Several restaurants lined both sides of the narrow road, but instead of stopping, my little sparrow kept right on walking. Halfway down, she passed the Russian Café, then went another fifteen feet before coming to a screeching halt.
A couple more cartel members closed in, and now, the men were about to flank her on both sides.
Doing the only thing I could think of, I dashed across the street, somehow avoiding the oncoming traffic. Her wide eyes met mine, and I swear, for a split second, it looked as if a glimmer of relief washed across them before the daggers resurfaced.
"Sorry I'm late," I said, laying my Russian accent on thick. "I see you found the café okay. You will love the food here."
I put an arm around her, careful to avoid her wound, then glanced at a restaurant employee.
In my native Russian tongue, I asked, "Do you have room for two?"
A Russian waiter nodded and opened the gate, inviting Mina and me inside.
Following the waiter, I kept her close to me for fear the little sparrow would try out her wings again.
At a table in the back of the building, the waiter pulled out a chair for her. When she went to sit, he moved to help her remove the suit jacket.
"Thank you," she said with a warm smile. "But I'm a bit chilly, so I'll keep it on."
I translated what she had said to the waiter, who nodded his head at her, then I told him to bring a tea service for one, a glass of their draft house beer along with water, and two of their dinner specials. When he left, I turned my full attention to Mina.
"Phone." I extended a hand across the table. "Now."
"Wow." She rolled her eyes, grabbed the phone, then slapped it on the palm of my hand. "Someone's touchy."
The waiter delivered the tea setup and the rest of the drinks.
"We need to talk," I said to her.
"Give me a minute," she said with a British accent this time, then flashed that smile of contempt again. "You know how I am about my teatime."
Mina meticulously prepared her tea, treating it as if there was an art to the process. Knowing that her behavior was intentional and that she was trying really hard to get under my skin did little to calm my inner growing anger.
In a public place, she had me at a disadvantage, but then again, the café we now sat in was owned by the Russian mafia—a different boss, but a Russian Pakhan just the same. So, now, she was on my playing field.
I took a large gulp of the beer, relishing the coolness as it went down.
"What you did back there in the middle of the street," I held her gaze, "you will not try that again."
"Well, now, was that a question or a statement? I couldn't tell if it rose at the end or fizzled and went flat." She waved me off. "Either way, I don't know about that, darlin'," she said with a twang. "I don't make promises I can't keep."
"That wasn't a question, Yasmina," I said, "it was an order."
"Wait a minute." Her voice had returned to normal. "Are you allowed to go off script and make decisions without your puppet master?"
The waiter returned with the food, sat it down, topped off my beer, then checked on his other tables.
"What is that?" She pointed at the dish set in front of her.
"Shchi," I said. "It's a cabbage soup with potatoes, carrots, onion, and chicken, among other spices. And this," I pointed to the middle of the table, "is blini. It's a—"
"A wheat pancake rolled with different fillings."
"Yes." I nodded. "These have cheese in them."
For the first time since I had met her, she actually ate. Evidently, she didn't care much for the shchi because she only picked at it, but the blini was another story. That, she ate with a hearty appetite. The waiter brought two pastries, a fresh teapot for Mina, and a black coffee at the end of dinner.
She poured herself a cup of tea from the fresh pot, then took a sip.
"This one has a different taste than the first tea." She glanced at me doe-eyed, reminding me of when I first met her on the plane.
"That's because it complements dessert." I took a drink of my coffee. "They brewed it special for you."
"Oh," she said, then turned her attention to the small plate in front of her. "Uhm, what is this?"
"Medovik," I said. "It's a honey cake. I'm surprised you've never tasted it on your many travels."
"Nope." She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Never had it."
"Tired?" I held her sleepy-eyed gaze with a small smile.
"Only a little." She picked at the cake, examining the layers, then took another sip of her tea.
I picked up my fork and scooped up a healthy, bite-sized piece. The combination of the sweetened cream and the honey melted in my mouth. By the time I finished my medovik pastry, Mina had downed a cup and a half of her tea.
Leaning back in her chair, she held my gaze, trying to fight off sleep.
"What the fuck did they put in my tea, Dom?"
"A sedative."
"You motherfucker!"
I grinned, then continued to sip my coffee.