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This is going to be way harder than I thought.
I sneak glances at Zasha between small bites, studying the sharp angle of his jaw as he focuses on his plate, the way his brow pulls slightly when he chews, the faint crease between his brows that never seems to leave.
He’s so… composed. So utterly still.
I swirl my fork in the syrup, trying to summon the courage to break the silence.
Say something, Mara. Anything.
I clear my throat lightly.
“So,” I begin, keeping my voice soft and casual, “have you always lived here? In New York, I mean?”
His eyes flick to me briefly, then back to his plate.
“No,” he says, his voice low and clipped. “Russia.”
I wait, hoping he’ll continue, but the silence stretches again.
Okay, Mara, you’re going to have to work your ass off for this.
I offer a small smile, trying again.
“Did you grow up in Moscow?”
Another pause.
“No.”
He cuts a piece of pancake carefully and sets his fork down.
“Foster care. Bounced around. Doesn’t matter where.”
I blink, feeling startled because I hadn’t expected that.
In my mind, Zasha has always been this untouchable, larger-than-life figure — the lethal enforcer, Viktor’s right hand, the man people lower their voices to speak about.
But sitting here, quietly telling me about foster care, about a childhood spent drifting…
It tugs at something deep inside me. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, heart beating a little faster.
“And when did you come here? To New York?”
He takes a slow sip of his own coffee, eyes shadowed.
“Eighteen.”
Another clipped answer.
I want to ask why — why leave, why come here, why walk into a world of shadows and blood — but I can feel the tension rising in him, the careful way he keeps his shoulders set, the subtle tightening of his jaw.
So instead, I offer something smaller, something safer.
“And you met Viktor here?”
That earns me the faintest flicker of something — the tiniest edge softening his voice.
“Yeah. Met Viktor here. We’ve been working together ever since.”