Lev: Rude. Also, tell Dima to stop at Whole Foods. The good one on Sahara.
“Lev wants—”
“I know.”
“How?”
Dima tilts his phone slightly. Group text. Of course there’s a group text. Probably calledBabysit the Banking Disasteror something equally flattering.
“Am I in this group text?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looks at me like I’ve asked why water is wet. “You’re the subject.”
“Of the group text?”
“Of everything.”
The way he says it—matter-of-fact, like it’s no big deal—makes my skin prickle. I’m the subject. Ofeverything. These men who kill for a living have made me their group project.
“That’s…” I search for the word. Creepy? Invasive? Weirdly flattering? “Concerning.”
“Yes.”
At least he’s honest.
I turn toward the window, letting Vegas smear past in lights and asphalt. The smart move would be to stop here. Keep my mouth shut. Quit poking at the guy who probably thinks small talk is a security risk. Rachmaninoff fills the car, complicated, heavy, not leaving much room for anything else.
We pull into Whole Foods, and he parks in a spot that gives him a clear view of every exit.
He gets out first, assesses the parking lot like he’s expecting an ambush between the Priuses and yoga moms. Then he opens my door.
“I can open my own—”
The look he gives me could freeze vodka.
“Right. Okay. Thank you.”
I step out, instantly aware of how… noticeable this feels. It’s not like people are actually staring, but my brain’s convinced we’ve just entered the “celebrity sighting” portion of the Whole Foods experience. I half expect someone to whisper,“Is that Kim Kardashian?”and then immediately answer themselves with,“No, just some random woman being escorted in by a six-foot-five Russian who looks like he eats paparazzi for breakfast.”
Inside, he pulls out a typed list from his pocket. Actual paper, folded precisely twice. Who uses paper anymore?
I open my notes app to check my sad little list—milk, bread, whatever’s on sale, wine to forget this week happened—but before I can say anything, his eyes flick to my screen. One raised brow. Then he takes my handbag right off my shoulder, drops it into the child seat of a cart, and starts pushing like I don’t exist.
The silent judgment stings more than if he’d actually said “nutritionally inadequate.”
I have to practically jog to keep up with his stride. He moves through the store like he’s on a mission, which I guess he is. Operation: Feed the Disaster.
In the produce section, I reach for regular tomatoes.
“No.” He redirects my hand to the heirloom ones that cost more than I’ve ever spent on fresh vegetables.
“Those are eight dollars a pound.”
He doesn’t argue, just reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black card. No name on it. Heavy enough that it feels like it could double as a weapon.
