Becoming Rain (Burying Water 2)

“I’ve been coming here since I could barely walk. My grandpa used to work here. He and Dmitri were best friends. ”

Right. Luke’s grandfather. Oskar Markov. Warner gave me the rundown. Luke, his sister, and their mom moved in with Oskar and his wife, Vera, after Luke’s father took off. They all lived together until Oskar’s death from lung cancer ten years ago, two years after his wife’s. Both heavy smokers. Somehow Luke didn’t get the message, because he still lights up. I wonder if that has more to do with addiction or the simple fact that Rust still smokes too.

I trail Luke in, inhaling the garlic-permeated aroma. It’s obviously an old store and family-run, based on the dated black-and-white checkered linoleum floor and the rows of black-and-white pictures of men in white butcher’s aprons covering one side. The owner isn’t too concerned about design, and yet there is something decidedly charming about it. Something you’d expect in an ethnic suburb and not in the trendy downtown core.

Jars of pickled herring and borscht line the front of the meat counter, and a wiry gray-haired man with thick-rimmed glasses stands behind it. “Luka!” he exclaims in his thick Russian accent. “I wouldn’t recognize you, if not for your deda’s eyes.”

This must be Dmitri.

Luke dips his head, his usual confident smirk replaced with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“How is your mother? And Ana?”

“They’re good. They send their love.”

“And you’re taking good care of them?”

“Of course, Dmitri.”

“Good boy.” Gray eyes flicker to me, prompting Luke to introduce us.

“Dmitri, this is Rain.”

Dmitri nods, first at me, and then at Stanley, whose flat nose is twitching from all the various scents. “Yours?” he asks Luke.

“No.”

Another glance at me. “I didn’t think so.” Dmitri wipes his hands on a rag and then grabs a slice of salami and tosses it right into Stanley’s waiting mouth. “What can I get for you today?”

Luke taps on the glass in front of the tray of ground meat. “Half a pound each of the beef, veal, and pork. That’s what you said, right?” He looks to me for an answer.

“Yeah. I mean, it depends how hungry you are.”

Dmitri slaps double that onto a sheet of butcher’s paper, wrapping and taping with the expertise of a man who’s been doing this for fifty-plus years. He tosses the packages onto the counter without weighing them, with a casual wave. No charge, he’s saying. “Tell your uncle to swing by, okay? And soon. Nikolai has some business for him.”

Luke shares a look with Dmitri and a spike of adrenaline hits me. I’m guessing Nikolai and Rust Markov aren’t going to be discussing meat grades.

“Rain, the market right next door should have whatever else you need.” Luke pulls his wallet out and begins rifling through an impressive stack of bills. “I’ll meet you there in five.”

He wants to talk to Dmitri alone. Crap. Is it about this thing with Nikolai, or something else? “I’m not sure how Stanley will take to me leaving,” I say, looking for a reason to stay.

“Ah, he’ll be fine,” Dmitri answers, tossing another piece of meat the dog’s way. I have a feeling he’s right. I could step outside and get hit by a bus right now and it wouldn’t faze my guard dog, his eyes glued to the meat counter.

When I still don’t move, they both turn to look at me, and I know that I have no choice. Anything else I say will be too suspicious.

“Sure. Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” I shake my head at the cash that Luke holds out.

As soon as I see the slight frown zag across his brow, I realize my error. He’s not used to seeing girls turn down money. It seems like such a minor thing, and yet it’s the seemingly minor things that can be the most explosive when you’re undercover.

I walk out, silently chastising myself.

Chapter 11

LUKE

The bell over the door rings as Rain disappears around the corner.

“Beautiful girl,” Dmitri notes, his brows arching in question.

“She is.”

“That thing,” he nods at Stanley, still tucked under my arm, his bulging eyes somehow bigger, “is not.”

I chuckle, giving Stanley’s head a rub and earning a snort in return. “He’s not so bad.”

“You always were a sucker for the ugly dogs,” he murmurs, moving to wash his hands. “Thank God you don’t pick your girls like you pick your dogs.” A long pause. “She’s not our people, Luka.”

She’s not Russian. My deda always told me to stick with “our people.” Old-school thinking. It obviously made an impact on Rust, given the vast majority of people he does business with are Russian. I suspect the people he does the illegal kind with are all Russian.

Me . . . I’m much more open-minded. “I just met her, Dmitri.”

“And yet you’re shopping for meat with her.”

I can’t help the chuckle. “It’s not a ring.” Not that Dmitri ever would have bought his wife an engagement ring.

“Well, hopefully you will be settling down with someone and soon. Don’t be like that uncle of yours,” he mutters. “Sometimes I wonder about him . . .”

All these guys wonder about Rust. Why doesn’t he settle down and get himself a wife? They’ve all got one—women to parade around, cook their meals, and wash their clothes. Basically, to mother them.