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him. Because if he felt even a fraction of what she felt for him, how could he not?
    â€œRicardo. You must be hungry,” Darya said, bustling among the pots on the stove.”
    â€œNo, no, Darya, please. I already ate.”
    Darya nodded and smiled; apparently Ricardo’s protests carried more weight than Chelsea’s.
    â€œRight now I need to take Chelsea somewhere she will be safe.”
    All three Russians murmured their assent, and Chelsea allowed herself to be helped up once more. “I didn’t bring anything—”
    â€œThere is no need,” Ricardo said, sharing a look with her. He didn’t need to elaborate: the last time Chelsea had stayed the night, his driver had brought her an entire set of clothes that fit perfectly. At the thought that she might be spending another night with Ricardo—even under circumstances such as these—Chelsea’s blood quickened.
    But she tried to keep her emotions under control. “All right,” she said. She drew a shaky breath, then spoke to the entire assembled group. “Thank you, all of you. I—I don’t know how I can repay your kindness.”
    â€œIt is nothing,” Alexander said kindly, but his father drew himself up to his full height, and his dark eyes flashed with fury.
    â€œWe do not let these pigs to scare us,” he fumed. “You are with Ricardo, and that makes you one of us.”
    Even Darya was nodding, her eyes troubled as she touched Chelsea’s arm. “You come back any time. Maybe if Ricardo must travel, you stay with us.”
    This might be the time to ask the questions that had been in the back of Chelsea’s mind during this entire evening: what exactly was it that brought these people together? Who was the threat—and why did they all seem to know without even asking the details of what had happened?
    How had a family of immigrant café owners come to be so intimately involved with an art authenticator—and how could their worlds possibly intersect with dangerous men who thought nothing of threatening an innocent woman with murder?
    â€œI…am so grateful for your help,” she said haltingly, wondering if it was wise to ask questions or whether it would be better simply to accept their kindness without looking too deeply at their motives. “I came here tonight because—well, because you have been so kind to me already. And because you know Ricardo, and, well—”
    She knew so little about her lover, but she didn’t want to admit that. It was clear that Ricardo trusted the Soloniks, and so she had blindly trusted them as well.
    â€œBut I don’t understand how you all got mixed up in this,” she blurted, unable to find another way to ask.
    Looks were exchanged; Ricardo nodded fractionally.
    â€œChelsea, we are lovers of art,” Boris said, and a little of the fierce pride left him and he looked like an old man again. “We come here from Russia when Alexander, he is just little boy. With us we bring few treasures, but we have some things we rescued when the Nazis came to destroying our village. They are worth some money, we think, but we never sell, is priceless to us.” He placed his hand over his heart as Darya dabbed at her eyes with a snowy embroidered handkerchief.
    â€œFew years ago, men come. They too are Russian but they are criminals, bratva living in United States. They know we have paintings, they have spent great deal of time trying to find us. Two of them come one night to our house. They make a lot of noise, break our things…terrify my beautiful wife, threaten us with unspeakable acts.” He placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder and Chelsea was left with little doubt that the old man would die protecting her if necessary. “They demand we give the paintings. They say they belong to them, their family was owner before the war, but we know this is not true. No one owns this art and everyone in