“Jasper.”
“Because you don’t look murdered, but you also don’t looknotmurdered, so forgive me if I’m confused. Explain. Slowly. Like I’m a toddler with a head injury.”
So I do.
I tell him about how everythingblew up. Lev, Dima, Boris, the desert. How Anton showed up before things went too far. How they didn’t kill me. How they kept me alive. How Anton made sure Grandma was safe—hired a nurse, even. How they said they were protecting me, but how protection in their world feels a lot like being owned.
By the time I’m done, I’m hoarse. My hands ache from wringing them. I can’t look up.
When I do, Jasper looks… unhinged. His face cycles through disbelief, horror, fascination, and, finally, a sort of exhausted awe. It’s like watching a telenovela play out in real time on one man’s head.
“Okay,” he says slowly, leaning back. “So you’re telling me that while I was in Milan, you accidentally moved in on John Wick with cheekbones, got adopted by his Slavic boy band, and now you’re Cinderella-ing to a mob gala tomorrow night as the date of a man who probably has someone buried under his tennis court?”
“Basically.” My voice comes out as a squeak.
Jasper blinks twice. His mouth drops open. Closes. Opens again.
“Mary Sullivan,” he says finally, “you’ve been living a whole premium cable miniseries behind my back.”
I groan. “Jas, please—”
“No, no, don’t you dare ‘Jas’ me. Do you have any idea how much drama I’ve been praying for in Milan? I’ve been stuck with sample sewers and socialites. Meanwhile, my best friend’s running a covert op with Russian Jason Momoa and friends.”
I choke out a laugh despite myself.
He leans forward, eyes bright now. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I was trying to keep you out of it.”
“Darling,” he says, deadpan. “You’re in a Bratva thriller, and I’m the overly dramatic best friend. It’s literally my job to be involved.”
Then he sits back, folds his arms, and gives me the look—the one that used to get me to confess who stole the vodka at homecoming.
“Now. Are you in love with him yet, or just halfway to Stockholm Syndrome?”
My jaw drops. “Jasper!”
“What? I’m serious. Do I need to plan a wedding or a rescue?”
I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, please,” Jasper gasps, hand to chest. “You’ve got that look. The post-sin glow. You’re either in love or you’ve done something unspeakably satisfying.”
I peek through my fingers. “I don’t even know what I feel, Jas. He’s—” I exhale. “He’s impossible. Cold one minute, protective the next. Like he’s allergic to emotions but addicted to saving my life.”
Jasper’s eyes narrow. “You’re sleeping with him.”
My silence answers for me.
He slaps both hands over his mouth, then lets out a strangled squeal.
“O—M—actual—G.You’resleeping with the Bratva man!”
“Keep your voice down!”
He leans in, whisper-yelling, “How was it? Wait! Don’t tell me yet. Actually, no, tell me immediately.”
I drop my hands, glaring. “You’re insane.”
