Boris’s face lights up like she offered him a winning lottery ticket. Lev groans out a loud “Yes,” before I can open my mouth. Even Dima’s expression shifts—subtle, but it’s there.
I shut it down before they start negotiating a menu. “No. We don’t have time for that.”
The table dips into silence for half a beat.
Lev slumps back in his chair. “Booo.”
Boris stabs another bite, muttering, “Would’ve been nice.”
Even Dima looks… disappointed.
They don’t get it. We’ve got forty-eight hours to find Viktor Kozlov, track the stolen money, and shove it under thePakhan’snose before Timofey spins another lie. I’m not wasting a night on roast chicken and pie, no matter how fucking good it might smell.
Mary just gives a little shrug, like she expected that answer. “Okay. But… you’re all finishing what’s on your plate. No excuses.”
And they do. Every bite.
Before Lev can ask for seconds, I push my chair back.
Time to get moving—before this turns into something I can’t pull them, or myself, out of.
32
Mary
The plates are still warm in the sink. I’m elbow-deep in suds, glaring at a smear of rosemary on the cutting board.
Behind me, there’s a thump. I turn and find Gordo rubbing his fat orange body along the leg of Anton’s expensive furniture, tail twitching like he’s reclaiming the penthouse for House Cat. He does a slow figure eight around the chair leg, then the sofa, then back to me, marking everything in sight.
I watch him for a second, dishwater dripping off my fingers. “Great. You live here now, too.”
He blinks up at me, slow and smug, before hopping onto the counter like it’s always been his.
It’s still noon, sunlight slicing across the kitchen floor like I’m supposed to be having a normal Saturday. And here I am, standing in a stranger’s penthouse, technically acaptivebut not locked up, not tied down. Just… here. Free to open the fridge, water the plants, maybe reorganize the spice drawer. Is this what house arrest looks like in the mafia?
God. What was I thinking?
Cooking. Eating. Laughing. Withthem.
I splash water on my face, slap my own cheek lightly.
“Snap out of it,” I mutter. “This is not Sunday dinner. This is… federal witness protection with a body count.”
But my head won’t stop drifting back to him.
Anton.
The way he looked at me like I’d committed some unspeakable crime by making scrambled eggs. Green eyes locked so hard I forgot how to breathe. Mesmerizing. Terrifying. And somehow… I want to see him smile. Just once. I want to know what he likes to eat, what he’d ask for if he let himself.
God, I’ve lost it.
I dry my hands and pick up my phone. I should let Essie know I’ve got Gordo before she starts knocking on doors.
She picks up on the third ring, her voice rushed, background noise full of clattering carts and muffled announcements. “Mary,mija, everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Sorry, um… I accidentally packed Gordo with me. He slipped into the carrier while I was moving stuff. He’s here.”
There’s a pause. Then Essie laughs, tired and surprised. “What? You took the cat?”
