He blinks, all fake confusion. “But we just—”
“The food. Is it here? Go check.”
“Anton, we literally just finished eating Chinese—”
“The better food I ordered for her.” My voice drops to the tone that makes grown men piss themselves. “Go. Check.”
Understanding flickers across his face, followed by that shit-eating grin that means he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Ah,da. The special order.” He stands slowly, making a show of stretching. “Of course,bratishka. Always thinking of the little rabbit’s comfort.”
He saunters toward the kitchen, and I catch him throwing one more appreciative look at Mary’s ass.
I’m going to kill him.
Mary stands there looking like she wants to disappear into the floor, arms still wrapped around herself. She glances between me and where Lev disappeared, confusion written all over her face.
“Sit,” I tell her, nodding toward the couch.
She hesitates, then perches on the edge like she’s ready to bolt.
Boris clears his throat. “The delivery should be here soon. Italian from that place on Spring Mountain. Much better than the Chinese garbage.”
Dima says nothing, just observes from his position by the window.
“I… I’m not really hungry,” Mary says quietly.
“You didn’t eat,” I point out.
“I ate some—”
“You picked at rice like it offended you.”
Her cheeks flush again. “I’m just… It’s been a long day.”
Long day. She has no fucking idea how long her days are about to get.
“You eat,” I tell her. “Tomorrow, you go back to work. You’ll need your strength.”
Something flickers across her face. Fear, maybe. Or resignation.
“About tomorrow,” she says, voice a low murmur. “I need to call my grandma. We talk every day. She’ll worry if—”
“Already handled.”
She blinks. “What do you mean, alreadyhandled?”
“I hired a nurse. Full-time care. Your grandmother will be looked after.”
The words hit the room like a bomb. Boris stops typing on his laptop, his mouth actually falling open. Lev pauses in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. Even Dima turns from the window to stare at me.
Mary looks like I just told her I bought her the moon.
“You… what?”
“Margaret Morgan, seventy-four, Ménière’s disease. She needs someone to check on her medication, help with dizzy spells. I hired someone qualified.”
Boris finds his voice first. “Boss, when did you—?”
