“Right. Of course you were.” I sigh, dropping the towel on the chair. “Add that to the list of people who think I’m an idiot.”
I glance down at my wrist out of habit. Bare skin. No watch, no bracelet. The ones Anton put there are still sitting on the nightstand, untouched. I don’t want them this morning. Notwhen the air still tastes like his words. Not when the memory of them presses harder than metal ever could.
I don’t want him listening in. Don’t want anyone listening in.
Gordo shifts. His whole body stiffens, ears snapping forward like twin radar dishes. He stares at the door, a little rumble low in his throat.
Three sharp raps, deliberate against the doorframe.
Then—tud, tud, tud.
My heart jumps into my throat.
Anton’s warning hammers in my head—if someone knocks, it’s not us.
My pulse spikes. For a second, I see the whole thing: strangers on the other side, guns raised, the end of me in a hallway.
Another knock. Lighter this time. Patient.
Then a voice: “Mary. It’s us.” Dima. Solid and steady.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my hand pressed flat to my chest.
When I crack the door, they’re all there. Dima, towering as usual. Lev slouched with his trademark grin, like he’s already planning to steal something off my plate. And Boris, clutching a paper sack that smells suspiciously like pastries.
“You… knocked,” I say, blinking.
Lev’s grin widens, lazy and sharp at once. “We’re here for breakfast. Your specialty. Pancakes.” He tips his chin toward the kitchen like it’s already decided. “We’ve got manners, sunshine.”
“Didn’t want to startle you,” Boris adds with a shrug, the bag crinkling in his grip. Casual, but not unkind. There’s even a flicker of something almost… considerate in his eyes.
Dima doesn’t add anything. Just waits, his shoulders filling the frame, presence solid as a wall.
It’s a small thing. A stupid thing. But it lands deep anyway. Because they don’t have to. They don’t have to knock, or explain, or look at me like I’m someone worth not scaring half to death. They’re supposed to be killers, and yet here they are—more careful with me than Anton ever was.
And that’s the problem. The more they treat me like I belong, the harder it’s going to be to remember that I don’t.
27
Mary
Istep back, pulling the door wider. “Fine. But if you’re expecting IHOP, you’re gonna be disappointed.”
Lev brushes past first, already grinning like he won something. “Sunshine, my expectations aresubterranean. You could serve us cereal, and I’d be impressed.”
“Cereal requires milk and bowls,” Boris adds, hefting his pastry bag. “Last week, Anton tried to make coffee. He broke the French press.”
“How do you break a French press?” I mutter, following them down the hall.
“Magnificently,” Lev tosses over his shoulder.
Dima brings up the rear, silent as always, but when I glance back, his mouth has that almost-curve that passes for amusement on him.
The kitchen feels smaller with all of them in it. Lev immediately colonizes the counter by the stove, hopping up and settling in like he pays rent. His legs dangle, expensive boots tapping against the cabinet. Boris sets the pastry bag on the island with the reverence of a man preparing a backup plan, then leans against the fridge, arms crossed.
Dima takes up a position near the pantry. Just… stands there. A six-foot-something wall of quiet competence.
“So,” I tie my damp hair back with the scrunchie from my wrist, “pancakes. You want chocolate chips, blueberries, or are we going plain and boring?”
