I’m not okay with my men eating her food, smelling her hair, hearing her laugh, petting the cat on her lap like this is some kind of social.
I’m not okay with the fact thatmaybeLev was right.
It’s been too long.
I lean back, watching her fingers move over the cat’s fur, the way her shoulders have lost that stiff, new-prisoner tension. She’s sitting like she’s not just allowed to be here—it’s like she belongs.
And I’ve seen that look before. My men wear it after a job that went cleaner than expected. It’s relief. Safety. She’s found some in this room, and I can’t decide if I hate it or need it to stay.
Boris wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, Mary… you always cook like this?”
She shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride there. “I like cooking. Always have. My grandma used to say that feeding people is like telling them you want them to live. She’d make these big Sunday dinners—roast chicken, fresh bread, pie cooling in the window. Half the neighbors would show up. She never turned anyone away.”
Lev grins, fork pointing at his plate. “Guess you got that from her.”
Mary smiles faintly. “Maybe. I like the… quiet of it. You follow the steps, you end up with something warm you can share. Not like life, where you can do everything right and still…” She trails off, then clears her throat. “Anyway. Haven’t had much reason to, lately. It’s just me and Grandma now. And she’s not big on sitting down for dinner anymore.”
That pulls Dima’s eyes up from his plate. That’s rare.
“This is… nice,” she says, almost surprised by it.
Three pairs of eyes on her now.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a meal with more than one person,” she adds. “A real meal. Not just…” She flicks her fingers toward Lev. “Ramen with jerky.”
Lev grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her smile turns a little wistful. “When I was little, I used to imagine that kind of thing. Sitting around a table, passing plates, everyone talking. But it never happened. Not once with my dad. Just him and my stepsister.”
That kind of absence—no one to eat with, no one making a plate for you—leaves a mark you don’t see until years later.
I know.
I know what it’s like to eat in silence because your father’s still out running someone else’s errands and your mother’s working herself raw cleaning apartments that aren’t yours. To hear cutlery clinking in other people’s kitchens through thin walls and know you’ll never sit at that table.
I shake it off.Stop being a pussy.
She breaks the silence. “When do you think this will end?”
It’s not naive. It’s the kind of question you ask when you’ve already checked every avenue and found them all blocked.
I don’t answer. Lev does. “When we find Viktor Kozlov and put him in the ground.”
She nods like she’s taking notes in her head. No flinch. No looking away. Just steady, watching me like she’s trying to figure out what’s under the part I let people see.
And I don’t like that.
Gordo shifts in her lap, stretching one paw against her stomach. She laughs—low, unguarded, the kind that breaks open her face without warning. I catch the flash of her front teeth, the way her hand drifts up like she might cover her mouth but doesn’t. Her eyes go brighter when she laughs, hazel catching the light until it’s almost gold.
I look away, busy myself with the plate. I tell myself I don’t care. I tell myself it’s irrelevant. She’s here for one reason—to get me something I can put in front of thePakhanthat proves Timofey’s a snake. That’s it.
She’s still watching me, silently assessing.
And I don’t like that either.
Because I can feel the room narrowing to her eyes, her mouth, her voice. I can feel myself getting pulled into something I have no business wanting.
I look up and she catches my eye. There’s a spark of hope in it before she asks, “If you want, I could cook dinner. Something bigger. You know… if you’re here.”
