And then he left. Just… left.
Now I’m here. With vitamins I don’t need and a morning-after pill I’m too chickenshit to reach for. Still dressed in the same leggings from the shooting range. My hair’s in a greasy bun, my thighs are sticking to themselves, and I’m pretty sure I smell like leftover dumplings and gunpowder.
Awesome.
I drop the vitamins in my basket and turn toward the front, trying not to breathe too hard.
“We should get going,” Dima says quietly behind me.
I jump a little. “Right. Yeah.”
Except… as we reach the registers, I catch sight of the weird mini pet section tucked behind batteries and plastic razors.
“Almost forgot about Gordo,” I say, already veering toward the sad, fluorescent-lit corner.
Dima moves with me. One step behind, always.
The cat food is stupidly high up. Like, need-a-ladder high. I rise on my tiptoes, fingertips grazing the edge of a dusty bag of something calledMeow Chow Delight. Not even the real brands. Just vibes.
Before I can tip it down and brain myself, Dima reaches over and pulls it off the shelf with one hand. Offers it to me without a word.
“Thanks,” I say too fast.
He doesn’t respond. Just stands there, still holding the bag, waiting for me to grab it.
He holds the bag a second longer than necessary, like he’s making sure I really want to take it. It rustles between us, that awkward pause hanging too loud in the air.
“Anton wasn’t mad at me, was he?” I ask. “Earlier. At the table.”
Dima pauses. Then hands me the bag fully. His voice is quiet.
“He wasn’t mad. Just… doesn’t like remembering things he had to do to survive.”
I nod. Swallow the knot in my throat.
Then Dima adds, almost like an afterthought, “You make him forget. That’s the part that confuses him.”
I blink.
But before I can ask what he means, he turns, nods toward the front. “Come on. I parked out back.”
At the register, I dig out my own card before he can even reach for Anton’s. If I can afford it, I’m not charging cat food and vitamins to the Bratva expense account.
The cashier—an older woman with powder-pink lipstick and soft wrinkles at her eyes—rings me up and slides the bag across. She gives me a kind smile, the kind you give someone who looks a little lost but is still trying. I force a small one back, sign the slip, and tuck my card away like proof I can still handle something myself.
The parking lot is hot enough to melt skin. I squint as we step out, grateful for the tinted windows of the black SUV. Dima opens the trunk, silently loads the bag of cat food and the vitamins I don’t need.
Then he pulls out his phone.
His brow knots slightly. He mutters something in Russian. Then, clearly, into the mic: “Da.”
Whatever he hears back makes his jaw tighten.
“We go,” he says shortly.
Something in the air changes. A switch I don’t understand, but feel all the same. The easy, blank Dima—wall-staring, vitamin-aisle Dima—is gone, replaced by something sharp and coiled. My stomach flips because ifhe’son edge, I probably should be terrified.
The ride back to the penthouse is silent. No music. No small talk. His grip on the wheel stays tight, knuckles pale against the leather. He checks the mirrors more than usual, eyes cutting to the side streets, lingering too long on passing cars. Every turn feels measured, every stop deliberate, like he’s expecting someone to be right behind us.
