The Russian Mafia Queen

oozed it twice before finally dragging myself out of bed. The usual heaviness lingered in the air, an unsettling mix of dread and determination that had become part of my routine

. I could sense the change in the air the moment he walked through the door. It wasn't just the sound of footsteps or the sudden shift in the room's energy. It was him. His presence was unmistakable, even before my eyes found him. His aura was like a storm-powerful, magnetic, and inescapable. For a split second, I thought about hiding. Ducking behind the counter or retreating to the back, disappearing before he could see me. But I knew better. I'd never survive if I ran now. Not again. Not like I did before. So, I forced myself to breathe. My hands, however, betrayed me, trembling as they gripped the notepad I'd been holding. I didn't dare make eye contact yet. Instead, I focused on the coffee machine, the sound of the espresso brewing filling the space between us. I had to get it together. He might not recognize me. He couldn't. He was too far removed from the past. But the weight of his gaze was undeniable. I told myself to look up. To face him head-on. He hadn't seen me in years. He didn't know me anymore. But the instant my eyes met his, everything stopped. The room disappeared. The clinking of cups, the quiet hum of the machines, the chatter of the few early customers-it all faded. It was just him and me, and for a moment, I was caught in the gravity of it. His eyes were different now, harder, sharper. But I could still see it. That flicker of recognition in his gaze. He knew me. Somewhere, deep down, he remembered. And yet... he didn't. Not completely. He didn't recognize the girl standing before him now. The girl who'd spent years running, hiding, burying everything she once was. That version of Chloe-of me-was long gone. I could breathe again. I pushed down the urge to run, to flee from the truth of the moment. Instead, I straightened my shoulders, forcing my face into the professional mask I'd perfected. I am just a barista. I am just a coffee girl. I forced a smile and walked toward him, ignoring the way my legs felt like they were made of rubber. I was determined not to let him see the storm brewing inside me. "What can I get you?" My voice was steady-almost too steady-despite the chaos of emotions running through me. His eyes stayed locked on mine, as if searching for something. His gaze was intense, unfathomable. "Black coffee, no sugar," he replied, his voice smooth and confident. No sugar. The words hung between us. Simple. Ordinary. Nothing about it was extraordinary. Nothing about it should have been anything more than a regular interaction between customer and barista. But the weight of his gaze-the way his eyes pierced through me-told me otherwise. I nodded quickly, tearing my gaze away from him before I could make a fool of myself. I couldn't afford to get lost in those eyes again. Not now. Not when everything wa