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lesson on the spate of robberies in New York, and she found herself counting the trucks lined up in the nearest row.
    She stopped at eighteen.

Chapter 6
    R uban stuck to the plan and went to work, just another week on the job.
    Monday through Wednesday brought no surprises. Thursday was his monthly meeting with a Nicaraguan seafood supplier who, as usual, wanted to jack up the price on the shrimp that went into Ruban’s signature dish: Russian borscht with grilled camarones in a Cuban marinade. They met at eight a.m. and haggled, over steaming cups of coffee, in the empty dining room at Café Ruban.
    Café Ruban was Ruban’s brainchild, a combination of Russian and Cuban cuisine that made for unique dishes, from the appetizer of caramelized yucca with caviar, to Russian pastries that made for a divine dessert when soaked in Cuban coffee. The café had originally opened in Miami’s Little Havana, where it was a complete disaster. Hardline expats vehemently opposed the notion that anything positive, much less edible, could come out of a Soviet-dominated Cuba. Ultimately, that mind-set worked to Ruban’s advantage. As far as he could tell, his nearest competition was O! Cuba in St. Petersburg—Russia, not Florida. He moved his restaurant north to “Little Moscow” in Sunny Isles, where it was just starting to flourish when his and Savannah’s financial world blew up.
    â€œCome on, Ruban,” his supplier pleaded. “Another nickel a pound. You can afford it.”
    Little does he know. “No,” said Ruban. “Nyet.”
    Not that Ruban cared about a few pennies here or there. It was all about keeping his boss happy, who insisted on a hard line with suppliers.
    Café Ruban bore his name, but Ruban didn’t own it. Not anymore. It was a great concept, and one wealthy Russian customer had loved it so much that he offered to buy it. Ruban wasn’t selling. Then he and Savannah fell behind on their home mortgage. Seriously behind. Their banker promised that if they brought the payments current, the bank would rework their loan to something they could afford. Ruban went to his Russian friend and borrowed $20,000, secured by the restaurant. He paid the bank, which then flatly refused to renegotiate the loan. The promised “work-out” was a lie, of course, the same lie that thousands of distressed homeowners heard at the height of the mortgage crisis. Their adjustable-rate mortgage skyrocketed, putting them even deeper into default. The bank foreclosed on the house. Café Ruban had a new Russian owner, who was smart enough, and lucky enough, to keep Ruban as a salaried manager.
    Ruban couldn’t wait to buy the place back.
    His supplier agreed to another month of shrimp at the current price. Ruban got a high five from his chef.
    â€œBoss man will be very happy,” she said.
    â€œHope so,” said Ruban. “He seems pissed that I’m not doing Savannah’s birthday party here.”
    â€œI think he understands.”
    Chef Claudia had known Savannah since high school, and Savannah had been the one to suggest that she and Ruban pair up to open a restaurant. The foreclosure, however, had killed the restaurant’s positive vibe, at least from Savannah’s standpoint.
    â€œYou’re coming Saturday, right? Club Media Noche.”
    â€œI don’t get off till midnight.”
    â€œIt’s Savannah’s twenty-ninth birthday, not her forty-ninth. We’ll still be going at midnight.”
    She laughed. “Then I’ll be there.”
    â€œGreat.”
    Claudia started toward the kitchen, but Ruban stopped her. “Hey, let me pick your brain a little bit. I’m having some paralysis by analysis with the gift. What do you think Savannah would really want?”
    Claudia smiled a little, but it was half sad. “You know what she really wants.”
    He knew. Better than anyone. “Okay, short of that, what would