He flips the screen toward us. The header looks official, some glossy PDF invite he clearly hacked into, with the Imperial’s gold crest at the top.
Lev whistles low. “No shit. Thought lover boy usually kept his nose clean. Sitting behind a desk, moving the money, pretending he doesn’t know where it ends up.”
“Exactly.” Boris’s smirk deepens. “If Caleb’s showing up on Timofey’s arm in public, it means one of two things: he’s either untouchable… or stupid.”
Dima mutters, voice like gravel. “Both. Which makes him dangerous.”
Lev grins, teeth flashing. “And vulnerable. Tell me we’re not sitting this one out, boss. Tell me we finally get to show Timofey that gifts get returned.”
The door creaks behind us.
Mary steps out, damp hair curling against her cheeks, flushed from the shower. She’s already in her work clothes: a pale blue blouse buttoned to the collar, tucked into a pencil skirt that hugs her hips, her Brightside National name tag pinned straight on her chest. Sensible flats on her feet, mascara smudged at the corner of one eye.
She freezes at the sight of my men, her mouth parting in shock.
I shouldn’t notice the small things. The way she squared her shoulders, like just putting on that blouse and tag was her armor. Even in this world, she’s still taking the fucking field, still fighting for her own right to exist.
Four pairs of eyes turn to me, waiting. Always waiting.
I look at them—bruised, bloodied, hungry—and I know the truth. Igor would tell me to stand down. Wait. But Igor isn’t here. I am.
My jaw ticks. The decision’s already made.
“We hit back.”
14
Mary
“And… what about you?”
The words hit my ears like they’re moving through molasses.
I blink. A shape is hovering above me. Female. Pink uniform. Gum snapping between her teeth like gunfire in slow motion. My brain is three decades behind schedule, but eventually, I realize—waitress. She’s holding a pen, staring down at me like I’m the dumbest person she’s had to serve before 8 AM.
I forgot where I am.
Right. Diner. Two streets from my workplace Booth. Sticky red vinyl. Coffee cup sweating rings into a paper placemat.
And me? I’m stuck in the middle seat of hell. Anton is pressed against my right side like a human wall. Dima is blocking my exit on the left, jaw swollen. Lev sits sprawled across from us, bandage slapped over his temple, a scrape running down his cheek like he tried to French kiss the pavement.
If I didn’t know them, I’d think they’d just walked away from a car crash. Or a bar fight. Or something equally dangerous that they’ll never actually tell me about.
The waitress’s eyes flick from their bruised faces down to me, wedged between them like the world’s saddest club sandwich. Her chewing slows. For a split second, she looks like she’s wondering if she should call 911.
Dima’s scowl could melt glass. He hasn’t even touched the menu, just keeps drumming his fingers against the table like each tap is a threat. If eye contact could kill, the salt shaker would already be in the morgue.
I make the mistake of snorting. Quiet. Not quiet enough.
Dima’s head jerks toward me, and for one second, I swear I see the thought flash across his face:Can I kill her with this spoon?
Lev grins, lip split from the impact. “Relax,printsessa. He’s not going to stab you before coffee.”
The waitress clears her throat, snapping me back. “So… side of bacon or sausage, hon?”
“Oh. Uh…” My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. My whole body feels like it’s made of expired Jell-O.
“Both?”
