Page 135 of Unrequited

I smile at her, small but genuine. “Thank you. I mean it. I appreciate it.”

I glance away, uncomfortable with how kind she is. “I just… I don’t like that our families are feuding. I don’t like the fighting. I like peace. I hate conflict.”

She raises a brow, grinning. “Yet here you are. Russian Bratva, married into the Irish mob. Sounds like conflict might be our middle names, huh?”

I laugh, in spite of myself. “Apparently.”

She winks and takes a long sip of her tea. “I find it helps if you add a splash of Jack Daniels to the tea. Calms the nerves.”

“For breakfast?”

“Oh, what they don’t know won’t kill them, eh?”

I shake my head, laughing. I sigh. Now it’s my turn to tread carefully. “I don’t want to overstep, but… I think your husband doesn’t like me?”

“Oh, love, no. Keenan and I talk about everything. He keeps nothing from me after all these years. Been married for decades now. Raised all these kids together. And I can promise you, it’s nothing personal. Give him time, love.”

She sighs, nostalgic. “Though it was different for us at first. His dad died the same day we got married. So he took the reins while grieving. He’s been through it, believe me. And it’s worn on him. His health, his mind… it takes a toll running a crew like this.”

I nod. “I imagine it does. Rafail had gray hair before he hit thirty.”

“Rafail’s your oldest brother, aye?”

“Yes,” I say. “He became my guardian when my parents died. He was eighteen.”

She leans in slightly, her voice softer. “If I can tell you anything, Zoya, it’s this: Our pain and our loyalty, that’s what binds us. My husband, he doesn’tdislikeyou. He wants peace, too, just like you and I do. But he doesn’t agree with how Seamus went about all this.”

“I get that,” I murmur. “So does Rafail. I just wish I could make them talk. It’s like one of those romance novels, where you just scream at the pages, ‘Just talk to each other already!’ But they never do.”

“Romance novels?” she asks with a sparkle in her eye.

I shrug. “My sister-in-law’s obsessed. She gives me all her recommendations.”

“Oh, fascinating,” Caitlin says, grinning. “I read them too. My daughters got me into them.” She winks again. “Now. I’m starving. And I wish I could cook better because, let’s be honest, the way to a man’s heart is absolutely through his stomach, no?”

I laugh. “So they say.”

We pull the first round of pirozhki out of the oven, warm and fragrant. “Sometimes we fill them with sweetened cheese and vanilla, sometimes apple or berry jam, or a poppyseed paste.”

“Oh, Zoya. These look divine,” she says, beaming. “I don’t care what my husband says. My son made a good choice.”

We laugh, and her words warm me. But they don’t settle the gnawing unease in my gut.

But here, in Caitlin’s kitchen, stirring batter beside her steady presence, it almost fades.

Almost.

“Kyla went into town to pick up some clothes for you,” she tells me. “I would’ve taken you myself, but Seamus asked you to stay nearby. Bronwyn’s at school.”

“Right.”

“I was very young when I had Seamus, you know. He’s a bit older than the others.”

I nod.

“Now, maybe you can help me put together a plan to cook this week?”

“I’d love to.” I help her plan while keeping half an eye on the door, waiting for my husband.