“Which one?” I peered through the windshield at the groups of unorganized men hanging out by their cars.
“Does it matter?” Rayko asked. “The kid’s dead.”
I spun my knife through my fingers. “No, no, it doesn’t matter.”
As I pushed from the seat, ready to hunt my prey from the shadows, Rayko emerged, armed with a handgun and machete, ready to watch my six. I owed my friend an apology for the stunt on the road. But he wouldn’t take it even if I gave it. He knew. He understood. And that was why he was by my side a moment later, ready to eviscerate men we had no quarrel with for the sole purpose of sating the bloodlust coursing through me.
Chapter 23 – Poppy
“Here’s the beef tripe you special ordered, Mrs. Mladenov,” the butcher squeaked, rushing from behind the counter.
A bubble of guilt fizzled in my gut, the feeling reminiscent of drinking a lemon-lime soda too fast.
“Thanks!” I chirped, snatching it and trying to rush away.
“And it’s grass-fed beef,” the butcher added, blocking me. “Tell Mr. Mladenov I hope he enjoys it. Whatever you need, you come to me.”
“Thanks, again. Will do!” I hurried to set the paper-wrapped package in the cart.
Brady watched me. “Why did he call you tatko’s name?”
“It’s…complicated.” It didn’t have to be. I could just take the damn name and use it without remorse. But it was the fact that I’d schemed to use it at all that made my stomach feel full of popping, restless bubbles.
They didn’t have the ingredient I needed the other day. They wouldn’t special order it. And the words ‘Ivan Mladenov will be disappointed to hear he’s not getting his favorite dish for supper’just slipped out. Now I had several employees at the local grocery store eating out of the palm of my hand.
What was the harm in a little fib? It worked. They’d assumed, and I hadn’t corrected.
I would probably take advantage of it again.
“Are felicitations in order, Poppy?” a voice asked behind me.
Stifling a squeak, I whipped around. “Mr. Dallas—”
“Please, it’s Steve to my friends.”
My smile felt weak. “We have to be going. I have a Shkembe Chorba to cook.”
“Sem Cobra? What’s that?” The commissioner wrinkled his nose.
“It’s my tatko’s favorite soup,” Brady informed him. “Shkembe Chorba.”
I beamed at my son’s perfect pronunciation. The crash courses in Bulgarian were easier for him, much to the guards’ delight. Kiril, in particular, had taken to talking to him in the native tongue. I struggled with the non-romance language, but I was determined to learn the basics.
“Sure, kid, whatever.” The commissioner turned to me. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Dread prickled along my spine.
“Come on, Brady. We gotta go, bud.” I grabbed his hand, the one that was losing the last bit of pudge and becoming the hand of a child, not a toddler. He was a big boy. He didn’t deserve to be talked to like that. I wasn’t giving Steve the time of day. My boy and I had cooking lessons to get to in the kitchen, followed by a few chapters ofThe Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.
“I can help you, you know,” the commissioner said behind me.
Pushing the cart, I ignored him. Whatever he was here for, I wasn’t interested. I shot a careful look around, but Boris liked to wait in the truck. And today was no different. He hadn’t come inside.
“Hey, Poppy, wait up!” The commissioner jogged after me. “I have a proposal for you.”
I’m so freaking tired of those!
Taking a deep breath, I met his gaze while continuing to the checkout lanes. “For your own health, Mr. Dallas, go on with your day and pretend you didn’t see me.”
