It only rings twice before a warm, no-nonsense voice answers. “Margaret Morgan’s house. This is Ruth.”
“Uh—” I sit up straighter. “Who’s Ruth?”
“I’m Ms. Morgan’s nurse. She’s doing her hair. Want me to put her on?”
Her nurse. Right.
The one Anton hired for my grandma. Nothing like finding out the mobster holding you hostage is also your family’s new healthcare provider. Weird flex.
“Hi, Ruth. I’m Mary, her granddaughter. How’s she doing?”
Ruth’s voice is calm and efficient, the kind of tone that makes you sit up straighter even over the phone. “She’s had some dizzy spells in the mornings. I’ve been monitoring her blood pressure and making sure she’s eating something more substantial than tea and toast. Today I’m doing baked salmon and vegetables.”
My brain does the math automatically. Salmon. Daily check-ins. Medication management. The woman probably charges a bundle.
“Mary?” Grandma’s voice comes on, a little scratchy but steady.
Relief warms my chest. “Hey, Grandma. How’s your morning?”
“She’s got me in curlers,” she says dryly. “Like I’m going to a dance.”
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. “You’d be the belle of the ball.”
We talk for a few minutes. About her breakfast, about how nice Ruth is, about nothing important. But she sounds… good. Happier than I’ve heard her in months. And that unsettles me, because the people making her life better are the same ones holding me here.
I tell her I won’t be able to visit for a few days—no reason given, because I can’t think of one that isn’t a felony—and hang up just as a sound catches my attention.
Outside.
Low voices. Male.
I pad to the bedroom door. Two shadows move under the frame. My brain instantly supplies one name—Anton—and my heart does this stupid little jump like a dog hearing a car pull into the driveway.
Seriously, Mary?
I do a quick mirror check. Hair: tragic. Sweatshirt: baggy. Not that it matters, but—Ugh,fine, it matters.I twist my hair into something vaguely intentional, swap the sweatshirt for a T-shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been chewed by raccoons, and open the door.
“Good morning,” I chirp. Great. Now I sound like I’m greeting a customer at the bank. All I need are a clipboard and a fake smile to complete the look.
Instead of Anton, I get Boris—broad, unreadable, arms loaded with what looks like half my balcony garden. Behind him, Dima looms like a bodyguard in a shampoo commercial—tall, intimidating, but with better hair.
And between them, plopped right on the floor, is Gordo.
The moment he sees me, his eyes go saucer-wide. He lets out one sharpMrrrp!and gallops toward me, round orange belly swinging like a wrecking ball. He rams his head into my shin, tail vibrating in that manic way that means “feed me or perish.”
I crouch, scratching behind his ears. “Why… is Gordo here?”
Boris shrugs, shifting a planter from one arm to the other like it weighs nothing. “He was on your balcony.”
I crouch, rubbing my fingers over the top of his head. He pushes harder into my hand, then lets out an even louder meow—long and accusing—the exact sound that says,“Woman, I have been STARVING for YEARS.”
I glance up at Boris. “Has he been with you since last night?”
“Yeah.” He says it like it’s nothing, shifting a planter from one arm to the other. “Got him some food. He ate, then passed out next to Dima for the rest of the night.”
I blink. There’s something almost sweet about it; two men who could probably dismantle a human body in under five minutes, making sure Essie’s spoiled, fat tabby was fed and tucked in.
“I should text Essie,” I murmur, scratching under Gordo’s chin. “Let her know he’s with me so she doesn’t worry.” Not that she wouldn’t have figured it out when he wandered back home smelling like gun oil and basil.
