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It’s a classic move and one he should have seen coming, especially with that crooked nose. Now it’s broken again.

Being used to that pain, however, he struggles, tugging his arm to free himself. All I have to do is twist my arm slightly, and his wrist snaps, driving him down. Then I take him right in the teeth with my knee, knocking most of them out.

He’s spitting blood as he helps his buddy up and they scurry off.

“We’re telling Pyotr about this!”

“Please do. Tell him exactly why I had to kick your asses, policing you sons of bitches for treating our people like shit.” It’s bad enough for the rabble having to pay taxes to the Bratva, they could at least be fair about it.

They’re cursing in Russian as they head off, leaving the alley silent.

Except for the dozen or so eyes watching me from behind curtains, through windows. Definitely going to regret the attention this brings.

Always gotta play hero. Make a scene.

“Are you alright?” I mutter, leaning down to help the old lady back to her feet.

“I am fine. You should not have done this.” She tuts, tapping my arm with one finger. She’s Turkish, if I’m not mistaken. If the sign above her little shop is any indication.

“You let me worry about that. Those guys should know better than to treat the people they’re supposed to protect like that.”

“Protect? I know you are not a stupid boy.”

“Well, I have been known to be pretty thickheaded. Still.” I shrug, escorting her to the doorway.

“Thank you.” She turns, giving me a nod.

“I’ll see you around.”

“Where do you think you are going? Come, I must repay kindness with kindness.”

Knowing better than to argue with my elder, I follow her into the café, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. The store smells incredible. Baking bread. Coffee.

We head back through the quaint storefront to a little table in the kitchen, likely meant for her children or grandchildren and I plop down. The spread is simple. But it’s hot and delicious.

Oats, berries. Toast, eggs.

Still a little fuzzy from my night of partying, I’m stuffing my face like a heathen.

“Do they not feed you in the Bratva?” A wry smile accompanies the jab.

“Not as much as I would like. And I got in the habit of eating as much as I could, when I could in the Gulag…”

“Ah. Yes.” A shadow passes over her expression.

“Someone you know?”

“My son, Demir.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It is the way things are. Life is hard. So you look for small joys, like feeding a young man with good intentions.”

“I see your point.”

“Keep making efforts, young man. And come see me from time to time if you need a hearty meal.”

“I will. And you give me a call if anyone bothers you.” I rise, jotting down my burner cell number on a napkin.