“Remember what?”
“That there’s more than this.”
It’s the most philosophical thing he’s said, and it hits weird. Makes me look at him differently. This man who kills people for a living thinks I deserve better wine.
“Do you?” I ask. “Have more than this?”
He considers the question as if it might be a trap. “No.”
“Then why—?”
“You might.”
I just stare at him, words jammed somewhere between my throat and brain. Didn’t see that coming.
The weight of it sits there, stretching the space between us. He has that quiet, dangerous presence, the kind that makes you pay attention even when you don’t want to. And now, apparently, he thinks I might have a future worth better wine.
I look at my bracelet, wondering if Anton’s listening through it. Would he text if he were annoyed? Or just show up later,irritated that I wasted time in the wine aisle? The not knowing is worse than orders would be.
I should be worrying about what happens when we leave here—the fact that there are people out there who’d rather see me dead than buying produce—but my brain latches onto something smaller, safer. Like how much all this is going to cost. Heirloom tomatoes. Mystery pickles. French wine. Cheese that probably needs a passport.
He steers the cart toward the front of the store without asking if I’m done. Of course I’m done. He decides when I’m done.
At the checkout, a teenage cashier is clearly overwhelmed, fumbling with the bags, dropping things. His manager swoops in and starts berating him in front of everyone.
“This is why I said you weren’t ready for register! You can’t handle simple—”
Dima steps forward. Doesn’t touch anyone, just inserts himself into the space between the manager and the kid.
“Breathe,” he tells the kid. “Count. Scan. Rhythm.”
The kid nods, starts again, finds his pace.
The manager sputters. “Excuse me, but—”
Dima turns those arctic eyes on him. “Problem?”
“N-no.”
“Good.”
When the last item hits the bag, the kid clears his throat. “Uh… $847.93.”
I pull the black card from my purse—the one Dima shoved into my hand earlier—and hand it over before my face can show how much that number just wounded me.
We leave with seventeen bags of overpriced groceries. The kid mouthsthank youas we go.
“That was nice,” I say in the parking lot.
“Necessary.”
“Why?”
“Chaos spreads. Better to stop it early.”
I nod slowly, because… weirdly, that makes sense. And that might be the most unsettling part.
My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my purse. I shift a bag to one arm, fish it out, and swipe the screen.
