He spins, eyes blazing. “We’re not crying over mob men or broken fingers anymore. We’re reclaiming the narrative. You’re walking into that gala tomorrow looking like the plot twist nobody saw coming.”
He storms toward the racks of gowns like a general leading troops.
“We’ll do silk. Maybe emerald. Dangerous but refined. Something that says‘Yes, I’ve survived a near-death experience and still have better taste than you.’”
“I don’t need—”
He turns, deadly serious now. “You need closure couture, Mary. You’re about to face the Bratva and a ballroom full of billionaires. We’re going to make you look so good every man in the room—Anton included—will weep into his overpriced vodka.”
Then, just like that, he grins again—wicked and unstoppable.
“If we’re doing Mafia Cinderella, we’re doing it in couture.”
29
Anton
Ray’s house smells like grilled chicken and sunscreen. Somewhere behind the screen door, his wife hums to a song playing from an old speaker, the sound of knives hitting a chopping board in rhythm.
I don’t know why I’m here again. To finalize tomorrow’s plan, sure. The CIA, the intercept, the cleanup—fine. That’s the official reason. But if I’m honest, it’s because every time I get near Mary, something in my chest starts to misfire. And sitting here on this porch, pretending I’m just another man watching another afternoon fade, is easier than feeling that.
Ray’s backyard runs like controlled chaos—kids shrieking, the dog barking at a butterfly, toys everywhere. His wife, Sarah, moves around the kitchen with a small bump under her shirtand a kind of peace I can’t name. She waves at us through the window like we’re part of the furniture.
Ray sets two cold beers on the table between us. “You look like you swallowed a nail gun, Malikov.”
I grunt. “Bad habit.”
He leans back, squinting at me. “No. Bad feelings.”
“Feelings,” I repeat flatly. “I don’t have those.”
He laughs, low and lazy. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
I take the beer but don’t drink it. The bottle sweats in my palm. Across the yard, his daughter is running barefoot through the grass, trailing a plastic sword, yelling about dragons. Ray watches her like she’s the best thing he’s ever built.
“You don’t miss it?” I ask.
He glances over. “What, the job?”
“The quiet.”
Ray chuckles. “Quiet’s overrated. You sit in silence long enough, you start hearing the things you’ve buried.”
I huff a laugh through my nose. “That supposed to be wisdom?”
“That’s marriage, man.” He nods toward the kitchen. “You think I didn’t bury half my ghosts before I met her? You find someone who makes the noise worth it, you start wanting different things.”
Different things. The words stick in my head, heavy.
Mary’s face flickers up again—her mouth twisting when she’s nervous, the way she tries to stand tall even when she’s shaking inside. The sound of her laugh when she forgets she’s scared.
Ray tilts his head. “You thinking about her right now?”
I don’t answer.
He grins, smug bastard. “Yeah. That’s a yes.”
I stare straight ahead. “She doesn’t belong inthisworld.”
