But now, as blasphemous as it is, I’m thinking, f**k the Bratva. All I want to do is storm down the stairs and make that little kiska scream my name.
I’m on my feet before I even know what I’m doing. Operating on pure autopilot. I don’t even think about it—I just go straight to the kitchen.
When I round the corner, she’s got her back to me, washing dishes in the sink and wiggling her hips to the tune of the song she’s singing to herself. The room around her is bursting with life. Bowls and strainers are strewn across the counters between culinary devices I’ve never seen used for as long as I’ve lived here. Spoons and spices and the smell, the smell, oh f**k me—the smell is f*****g divine.
I can feel her good mood from here. Evidently, she can feel my presence, too, because she whirls ar
