Yelena comes down the stairs so quickly that I think she must have been waiting at the top. She’s dressed in high-waisted shorts and a pretty floral top that ties in the front. I want to compliment her, but I feel awkward with her father and brother standing by.

“Let’s go,” she says, without quite looking at me.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to Adrian and Alexei again, this time in English.

Yelena follows me out to my car. She seems surprised to see that I drive a beat-up F150.

“What’s this?” she says.

“A truck,” I reply, opening her door for her. My truck is lifted, so I give her my hand to help her step up inside, though that’s not as necessary for Yelena as for more petite girls.

“I thought mafiosos drove BMWs and Cadillacs,” she says.

“I don’t fit in a sedan very well,” I say, going around to the driver’s side. “And honestly, neither would you.”

The corner of her full lips pulls up just a little.

“This truck looks old,” she says.

“It is old.”

“You don’t like to draw attention?”

“Depends what for.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

I start the engine, saying, “For example . . . I wouldn’t mind every man I met staring at the girl on my arm.”

Her smile widens just a little, showing a dimple on the right side of her lips.

“You wouldn’t be jealous? Most men hate anyone looking at their woman.”

“With a girl as gorgeous as you, I could hardly blame them.”

Yelena examines me, her lips pursed.

“You’re very free with compliments.”

“Compliments by nature are free.”

“A Russian man would point out my flaws to keep me humble.”

“I’m not sure how he’d manage that.”

“Keeping me humble?”

“No,” I say. “Finding a flaw on you.”

Now Yelena scoffs and shakes her head. “I don’t trust your flattery.”

I shrug. “I’m just being honest. That’s what I liked about you, as soon as we met. You said what you thought. No bullshit.”

A shadow falls over her eyes, turning them from violet to navy. “If only that were true,” she says.

I think she’s talking about her father, who’s falling away behind us as we drive, but not fast enough.

“I guess you can’t always say what you think in that house,” I say.

“Not if you want to keep all your fingernails,” Yelena says.

I glance over at her, wondering if she’s joking. He wouldn’t actually hurt her, would he? She’s his only daughter . . .

“What about your brother?” I ask.

The tension fades from her face as we switch to this topic instead. Yelena smiles fully for the first time, showing the lovely white teeth between those soft lips. “Adrian is my best friend,” she says simply. “We’re twins.”

I don’t know any other twins. A dozen questions spring to my mind, most of them stupid, and things that Yelena’s probably been asked a hundred times before.

I settle for asking, “Is that different from normal siblings? I know everyone thinks it is, but I’m assuming you can’t actually read each other’s minds . . .”

Yelena laughs softly. “Well, I don’t know for sure, because I don’t have any other siblings. But yes, I think it’s different. We understand each other. I do know what he’s thinking or feeling. Not because I can read his mind—only because he’s so familiar to me.”

I can understand that. I know Dante, Nero, and Aida pretty damn well. But my bond is split between four siblings. Yelena’s is focused on one person.

“What about your mother?” I ask.

“She’s dead,” Yelena says, in a tone that forbids further inquiry.

“So is mine.”

“She is?” She turns to face me, her voice softening.

“Yeah. She died when I was eight. She was a concert pianist. You play piano, don’t you?”

I’m remembering Yelena’s bio from the date auction.

“Yes,” Yelena says quietly, twisting her hands in her lap. Her fingers are long and slim and beautifully-shaped. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s a musician. “I’m sure I’m not as good as your mother was. I never played professionally.”

“Did you want to?”

She presses her lips together, still looking down at her hands.

“Maybe,” she says.

“I’d like to hear you play.”

She clenches her hands into fists and shakes her head. “I haven’t practiced in a long time,” she says.

I’m driving us over to Grand Avenue, where a street fair is in full swing. It’s the Summer Food Festival, held every year during the first week of June. Long before we arrive, we can smell the tantalizing scents of sizzling meat and fresh-baked pastry, and hear the cacophony of music, laughter, and the patter of street performers.

Yelena perks up at the sight of all the color and bustle. “Is it a holiday today?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “There’s all kinds of street fairs in the summer. This one’s my favorite.”

I have to park the car a few blocks away, since the street is roped off. Yelena doesn’t seem to mind the walk—she hurries along, eager to immerse herself in the throng of people.

Buskers are performing on both sides of the street—magic tricks, acrobatics, sword-swallowing, and slapstick comedy shows. Yelena seems particularly intrigued by two girls who are bending and balancing themselves in intricate positions, stacked on top of each other.

“They’re strong,” she says approvingly.

“You think you could do that?” I ask her.

She considers. “Not without a lot of practice.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask her.

“Yes.” She nods.

If she wasn’t before, she would be as soon as she smelled the enticing aroma of the food trucks lined up almost a mile down Grand Ave. I try to explain the various offerings she hasn’t seen before, including funnel cakes, Navajo tacos, lobster rolls, street corn, pulled-pork sandwiches, wine slushies, and Whoopie pies.

In the end, I buy a dozen different things for us to sample, even though Yelena wrinkles her nose at a few of them.

“Come on,” I tease her. “I know you’ve eaten weirder things than this in Russia.”

“What do you mean?” she demands. “Our food is perfectly normal. Not all fried and skewered on a stick!”

“If you can eat fish eggs and herring, you’re going to like deep-fried cheesecake a fuck of a lot better,” I tell her.

“I don’t like herring,” Yelena admits.

She takes at least one bite of everything, even the bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers, which she had eyed with particular suspicion.

She likes the street corn, but not the brisket nachos, which she deems “messy” and “greasy.” The desserts are almost universally pleasing, particularly the browned-butter banana and Nutella croissant, which she polishes off in three bites.

“This is very good,” she says. “This you could sell in Moscow.”